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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29979627">If That's All There Is</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl'>meansgirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>all there is [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Babysitting, Bad Parenting, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Family Dynamics, Fix-It of Sorts, Greg Lestrade's Surefire Self Care Routine, Healing, House Hunting, Kissing, M/M, Mental Illness, Mother-Son Relationship, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Non-Penetrative Sex, Original Character Death(s), Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, References to Depression, Suicidal Ideation, The Great British Bake Off References, Therapy, breakdowns, past trauma, season 4 compliant, supportive friends</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:09:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>54,400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29979627</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The slow-motion breakdown and hard-fought redemption of Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>all there is [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2295725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>219</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>347</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> It's just a house burning, but it's not haunted </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was your heart hurting but not for too long, kid </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- Okkervil River, "Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe" </em>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mycroft’s hand shook and that was unacceptable, but he could not stop it. He held onto the mobile so tightly that his fingers hurt, and pressed it to his head so hard that his ear throbbed. That got it somewhat under control. The police officer who had handed him the phone stood by and pretended she wasn’t eavesdropping. </p><p>“This is Mycroft Holmes.”</p><p>“Ohh, thank fuck.”</p><p>Mycroft swallowed hard. “I—” the length of time it took him to understand, to recognize the voice, was alarming. Several heartbeats passed. The hand not holding the phone trembled through his hair. “Oh. Detective Inspector.”</p><p>“Mycroft, hey.” Lestrade’s voice was distant. There was interference and background noise - sirens and shouts, the whip of wind, a chopper above him. “What—  Are you alright?”</p><p>“I… am.” Mycroft let his hand turn clawlike against his scalp. “I am in one piece.”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“Sherrinford. I assume you have been briefed?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Yes. Your assistant filled me in. She’s… putting out fires, I guess.”</p><p>“She is carrying out my duties,” Mycroft corrected, his stomach turning over at the thought that tomorrow he would need to relieve her. To get on with it. “It’s her job.”</p><p>“Well…” Lestrade blew out a breath. “Alright. Look, I’m not sure what your job <em> is, </em>which isn’t really relevant at present. Let the officers there help you for now, alright? I’m trying to track down your brother and John. This place is a madhouse.”</p><p>“And… and it’s true, that they were taken to Musgrave?”</p><p>Lestrade made an affirmative sound, and Mycroft closed his eyes. </p><p>“Alright,” he said, then cleared his throat against the rasp. “What next, Detective Inspector?” </p><p>“Sit tight,” Lestrade said, in the sort of voice Mycroft guessed he probably used with most—  victims. “Stay calm, and have a cup of tea. I’ll tell them to find you something to eat. Someone will meet you at the helipad.” </p><p>“Not Sherlock.” Mycroft was slowly remembering that his lips were dry, that he was covered in a thin layer of sticky dried sweat, and that his mouth tasted foul. “He… he and Dr Watson will need to get home. Don’t… don’t let them come for me.” </p><p>Lestrade was quiet for a moment, the only noise over the line the background bustle and chaos. “If that’s what you want,” he said. “Alright.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Mycroft glanced over at the officer patiently waiting to take the mobile from him. She continued to politely pretend not to hear a word he said. “As always, Detective Inspector, thank you for taking care of my brother.”</p><p>“Mycroft…”</p><p>He winced and took the phone away from his ear. He held it out to the officer. “I assume he will need more information from you.” </p><p>She nodded and took the phone, then left Mycroft alone in Sherrinford’s hideous fishbowl of a conference room. He turned his back on the narrow window set in the rock, and for the next little while, tried not to fall over. </p><p>*</p><p>Anthea didn’t arrive on the helicopter that came to transport Mycroft off the island at last, but a junior agent Mycroft recognized (but whose name he couldn’t recall at the time) disembarked holding a garment bag and a phone to replace the one he had lost. </p><p>“Thank you,” Mycroft said, pushing the words out past gummy tongue and furry teeth. </p><p>“Sir.” The agent gave a crisp nod. “Your assistant requested that I remain behind to oversee this scene in her stead.” </p><p>In Mycroft’s stead, too, then. He nodded. This agent was all of twenty-five and Mycroft felt incredibly ancient and tired. Too tired to be appalled or to worry whether the young man could handle the mess. His mess. He didn’t particularly care. </p><p>“They’ll want you to give one last statement. Your assistant thought you might wish to be more comfortable.” </p><p>Mycroft wouldn’t change. The thought of removing his clothes anywhere in this place made his blood run cold. He took the garment bag anyway. </p><p>“Yes, thank you.”</p><p>The agent nodded again, then left Mycroft standing there waiting for someone to tell him where to go. </p><p>The mobile was identical to his old one and had already been set up to the usual specifications. </p><p>He had a text. </p><p><b>AN (11:15pm): </b>Lestrade will meet you. Let him drive you home. Let him walk you into the flat and see that you are safe. </p><p>Mycroft thought for a moment about arguing. About <em> demanding </em> a car with one of his usual drivers. He thought about reprimanding her for the presumption. He couldn’t muster the energy to type anything out. </p><p>It turned out not to matter. Another agent plus one of the Met detectives materialized a moment later and asked him to please follow them, as the chopper was now preparing for takeoff and they wanted a quick word before he departed. </p><p>*</p><p>Lestrade was waiting, as Anthea said, and Mycroft was - again - too tired. He allowed himself to feel the relief of a familiar face. He managed to take the hand at his elbow with grace, stopping himself from chewing on the peeling skin on his lip in front of Lestrade and the assembled lookers-on. </p><p>“I’ve convinced everyone to let you go home. Anthea helped.” Greg guided Mycroft away from the helipad toward his car. “What statements you’ve already given will do for now. It’ll keep ‘til tomorrow, at least. Do you need a doctor?”</p><p>Mycroft shook his head. “No. The medics cleared me already.”</p><p>This was a half-truth. Mycroft had smacked away the hand offering him a foil shock blanket, and informed the gathered medical personnel that he was <em> perfectly fine, thank you.  </em></p><p>By then the body of the governor had been taken away. Mycroft didn’t know the status of his wife, or of the Garrideb brothers. He couldn’t seem to keep his mind on them, however. Anthea would see to it, he had told himself, and snapped again at the medics to let him be. </p><p>Lestrade gives Mycroft a look as he unlocks and opens the passenger door. “You’re sure?” </p><p>Mycroft nodded silently and put himself in the car. </p><p>“Did they bring you anything to eat?”</p><p>“A banana and a packet of crisps,” Mycroft murmured. “I’m quite alright, I assure you.”</p><p>“Bollocks.” Lestrade said it almost cheerfully as he started the car. “You lie like a rug, Holmes, and I know what you look like half starved and stretched thin, thanks. Tell me where to take you. The good house or the shithole?”</p><p>Mycroft turned to him, surprised. “I beg your—” </p><p>“You have two London flats and I think you should go to the one that’s most like an actual house and not the one that looks like a scary basement, but I suppose it’s up to you in the end.”</p><p>“A <em>scary basement?” </em> Mycroft huffed. “That isn’t <em> my </em> flat, it belongs to the British government.” </p><p>“Mm.” Lestrade shrugged one shoulder. “You made me drop you there after the thing with the art heist when we had to keep Sherlock from getting extradited to Russia. And that time with the flu.”</p><p>Mycroft shook his head. “The house in Pall Mall is fine.” </p><p>“Great.” Lestrade turned the car in the right direction. “Good choice.” </p><p>Perhaps Mycroft’s only good choice in the entirety of his life, judging by the last two days. He kept quiet and let his head tip back against the seat, then closed his eyes. </p><p>*</p><p>“Alright, Mycroft,” the voice near his ear murmured. “I’ll carry you if I have to, but if you get dropped—” </p><p>He inhaled sharply and opened his eyes. </p><p>“Oh, thank god.” Lestrade sagged a bit, hanging by one hand in the open passenger door. “You were really out.”</p><p>“My apologies,” Mycroft said, wincing at the involuntary groan in his voice when he straightened. His body, from his scalp to his toes, felt abraded and bruised. “I didn’t mean to be so rude.”</p><p>“It’s not rude, Mycroft,” Lestrade said, more softly than Mycroft deserved. “Come on, you’ve been through hell. Let’s get you inside. You’ll be wanting a shower, and Anthea says you have to eat.”</p><p>“Anthea says,” Mycroft muttered to himself, removing his seatbelt. “Naturally, if <em> Anthea </em> says.”</p><p>Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing further. Mycroft was intensely aware of the man’s presence at his back as he unlocked the gate to let them onto his front walk. Had he been awake, he would have directed Lestrade to park in the carriage-house-turned-garage behind the townhouse. It was lucky they found street parking in front of the house. </p><p>Then, of course, Anthea probably orchestrated that as well, doing Mycroft’s job precisely and effectively. </p><p>“You are free to go home,” Mycroft said while he let them into the house, turning to press his thumb to the discreet reader just below the handle of the door. “I’m quite alright on my own.”</p><p>“Nope,” Lestrade replied firmly. “I’m not allowed to, and even if she hadn’t asked me to, I’d stay. This was a nightmare, Mycroft, you shouldn’t be on your own.”</p><p>Mycroft had nothing to say to that. He was always on his own, and he supposed he could say that, but Lestrade - soft touch that he was - would probably take it as all the more reason to stay. </p><p>“I’m going upstairs to freshen up,” he said instead, not looking back. “You remember where the kitchen is.”</p><p>“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “Need anything before you—”</p><p>“I’m <em> fine.” </em>Mycroft made for the stairs. “The takeaway menus are in a drawer next to the stovetop.” </p><p>With that, he took his leave. </p><p>*</p><p>He hated the shower in the master suite. It was too small, and surrounded by textured glass. An outdated remodeling detail from the nineties at least, possibly as long ago as the eighties. Mycroft hated it particularly now. Almost two decades living with a bathroom he couldn’t stand, and tonight might be the night he finally took a hammer to that god awful glass. </p><p>He shook himself and ran the water as hot as he could stand, then forced himself to step in and shut the door. </p><p>He wasn’t claustrophobic, but he felt trapped tonight. He would need to get it over with quickly. He could feel the vague creep of panic working its way up the back of his neck. He didn’t want it; couldn’t stand it. He’d had enough of that feeling since the moment the drone appeared in the lounge at 221B. He thought he was finished with it, the last several hours of sitting and waiting, watching with dulled interest as Sherrinford was swarmed with police and government agents. He thought he had reached the pleasant blankness stage of the process. </p><p>He washed quickly and took himself out of the bathroom in his dressing gown, hair still dripping. The steam in the air felt suffocating, and his knees felt weak. He was desperate for the clear air in the bedroom. He lowered himself to sit on the bench at the end of his bed, where he normally put on his shoes every morning, and he rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. There, he took ten measured, counted breaths. </p><p>
  <em> Get up. Get a towel. Get dressed. </em>
</p><p>It took him a while to get off the bench to do it, but the moment his body was moving again, his brain tried to do the same. </p><p>This had all been a failure. A massive, terrible failure. </p><p>He had handled it so poorly that he felt the urge to physically cringe just thinking of it. </p><p>
  <em> I warned you. I ordered you.  </em>
</p><p>As if his own word was in fact law. Incontrovertible. To be heeded without question. He had grown complacent and oversure. He had caused deaths. Many of them. </p><p>
  <em> She was never the same after that Christmas.  </em>
</p><p>He gave her a violent criminal. He delivered Moriarty to her and god only knew what that had set off in either of them. </p><p>
  <em> Don’t be foolish, Mycroft, use your head.  </em>
</p><p>So stupid, he had been so stupid. </p><p>And he knew, somewhere in the further recesses of his mind, that he would eventually experience these same thoughts in a more organized manner. That he would feel more about them later than he was capable of now. But as he forced his sluggish arms into the sleeves of a thermal shirt, Mycroft simply could not be arsed to care that he was incredibly stupid and terribly foolish. </p><p>He also couldn’t bring himself to care that Lestrade would see him in his oldest, most threadbare and comfortable sleep clothes. It wasn’t as if the man hadn’t seen him in various states of disarray before. The flu incident, for example. </p><p>More than one night spent in hospital waiting rooms. </p><p>More than one wade through a squalid flop house looking for Sherlock. </p><p>Lestrade didn’t so much as blink at the plaid bottoms and the long sleeved shirt with a hole by the right cuff. </p><p>“I ordered delivery,” he said quietly, waving the menu for Bombay Place. “You’re veggie-only, right? Saag paneer?”</p><p>Mycroft was surprised Lestrade remembered a detail like that. It was something he himself would store away for later. Possibly Lestrade hadn’t kept it in mind all this time - they hadn’t eaten a meal together in years, and Indian only once - perhaps he had just made a lucky guess. </p><p>“Yes,” Mycroft remembered to say aloud. “I'm less strict than I was before, which my doctor does not appreciate. But or the most part, yes. Saag is fine, thank you.”</p><p>“Great.” Lestrade rounded the kitchen island, a teacup in hand. “Here. Drink this. Have you had enough water?”</p><p>Mycroft took the cup. “I was observed by a medic to ensure I did.” </p><p>“Good,” Lestrade murmured. “Alright. Let’s sit. You should sit. You look cold.”</p><p>Mycroft trailed after Lestrade to the den, a cozy combination library/lounge across the hall from the study. It was the only room beside the kitchen that Lestrade had ever seen in this place. </p><p>“Remember the last time I was here?” Greg glances over his shoulder. “Sherlock got poisoned.” </p><p>“Poisoned <em> himself,” </em>Mycroft corrected absently, allowing himself to be waved into one of his own chairs. “At least it was unintentional. And it wasn’t heroin.” </p><p>“Yeah.” Lestrade sat to his side on the closest end of the sofa, then after a moment’s contemplation reached behind himself for the thick throw blanket that probably had never left the back of the sofa before. He leaned forward, tossing it over Mycroft’s legs. “You’re shivering.”</p><p>Mycroft clenched his teeth. He <em> was </em> shivering. He hadn’t noticed. </p><p>He hadn’t noticed his eyes closing, either. When they opened, Lestrade was standing and telling him he would be back in a flash, that he needed to meet the delivery person at the gate. Mycroft closed his eyes purposefully this time. He rested his temple against his fingers and tried for a complete thought, the makings of a plan, a set of next steps. </p><p>It was akin to attempting to see a picture through the white and black snow of an old television. </p><p>“Time to eat.” </p><p>The voice was soft, as it had been in the parked car. </p><p>Mycroft came to attention again with another half-gasp. </p><p>“You’re exhausted,” Lestrade said. “I know. But you really should eat.” </p><p>Plates were already laid out on the coffee table. Mycroft’s was accompanied by both a glass of water and a small measure of red wine. He blinked at it. </p><p>“You had a bottle open on the worktop,” Lestrade explained. “I thought it might help you get to sleep, but then… you seem to have no trouble there. Don’t drink it on my account.” </p><p>They sat catty-corner to one another, knees serving as tables, the coffee table holding their drinks and an oil-spotted paper bag of naan resting on an extra plate. </p><p>“I don’t think I was asleep,” Mycroft murmured. “Merely… I don’t know.” He took his first bite of saag and needed to let his eyes fall shut again, this time to fight back an inexplicable sting at the simple, perfect pleasure of it. He had half expected it to taste of dust. On the rare occasions Mycroft had suffered an emotional shock in his life, his appetite had crumbled into nothing, food losing all flavor. Why hadn’t it done so this time? </p><p>Perhaps the shock wasn’t as emotional as it ought to be. </p><p>“It’s good?”</p><p>Mycroft nodded. “God, yes. Thank you. This was kind of you.”</p><p>“You’ve bought me dinner before. Nicer ones.” </p><p>“Those were… those were meant as thanks. You owe me nothing for them.”</p><p>Lestrade made a dismissive sound. “Well, either way.” </p><p>Silence fell as they ate, and Mycroft felt it fill with the sound of the white and black snow, too. A blank, relentless shush that wasn’t there, really, but which he could hear just the same. He set down his cutlery and breathed. </p><p>“Alright,” Lestrade said. “We could talk? About whatever - not necessarily what hap—” </p><p>“No, not that.” Mycroft swallowed hard at the end of that sentence. “Anything but my siblings, please, I—  but the quiet is…”</p><p>Lestrade hummed an acknowledgment, as if he understood just what Mycroft meant, though he couldn’t possibly. “Did I ever tell you about the time I got sent to the headmaster for painting Lizzy Porter’s pigtails green?” </p><p>Mycroft laughed despite himself. “No, I don’t believe you have told me that story.” </p><p>“Well.” Lestrade handed him the wine glass. “You’re in for a treat, then.” </p><p>*</p><p>Lestrade excused himself to the powder room and Mycroft cleaned up their plates and glasses. It felt more possible, manageable, the motions of it, than any form of movement had felt up until then. He ran water in the kitchen sink and rinsed the plates before loading them in the dishwasher. He heard Lestrade enter the room behind him after a couple of minutes. </p><p>A moment later, Mycroft thought, for no reason at all: <em> I wonder if they fought over the proper way to load the dishwasher.  </em></p><p>The governor and his wife. </p><p>The governor’s blown out skull. </p><p>The governor’s sightless eyes. </p><p>The governor’s blood all over the glass. </p><p>He took a moment to breathe and shut the dishwasher with a quiet click. If only it were possible to slam high-end kitchen appliances. They were all made to be whisper quiet. </p><p>He had been foolish to wish his mind would function. He missed the static. He immediately longed to have it back. </p><p>“I can get out of your hair,” Lestrade said gently from just behind him. </p><p>Mycroft turned, hoping to god he didn’t look as green as he suddenly felt, hoping he didn’t <em> look </em> like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He wasn’t entirely sure that was what he was, but he wasn’t entirely sure that it was not. </p><p>“Or if you need help with anything?” Lestrade stood awkwardly, a bit nervously, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I’m happy to—”</p><p>Mycroft, perhaps forming a plan for shutting off his brain without being entirely aware of it, crossed the kitchen and kissed him. </p><p>What series of deductions, long ago, had told him that this would be welcome? Or at least, not abhorrent? When had he realized? </p><p>Perhaps the night he met the man, then a sergeant only grey at the temples. Perhaps later, when he insisted on buying Lestrade lunch as thanks for helping Sherlock. It could have been any time over the years, over a handful of thank-you dinners and he-survived-again drinks. Mycroft wouldn’t have allowed himself to note the date. Wouldn’t have allowed himself to care about such a thing. </p><p>And yet. </p><p>Lestrade kissed him back, his hands moving immediately to Mycroft’s shoulders, then to his upper arms, holding on. </p><p>The kiss was not particularly good, but it was <em> sufficiently </em> good. It was indicative of enough chemistry to be getting on with. Mycroft’s mind made a go at whirring back to life and cataloged a mish-mash of tiny reactions and movements, deducing them as quickly as he could - not as quickly as usual. Lestrade would do this for him. With him. No, <em> for </em> him. </p><p>Would it be taking advantage, if Mycroft asked? </p><p>Would it be only kindness?</p><p>Mycroft didn’t care. He realized this, noted it, and discarded it. He shoved his thigh between Lestrade’s legs. </p><p>“Wait,” Lestrade gasped. His hands tightened around Mycroft’s arms, not pushing him away, but guiding him to stop. His lips were shiny, and his eyes were wide. “Mycroft, are you—  you’ve been through an ordeal.” </p><p>“Yes,” Mycroft said. “It’s fine.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“It is.” Mycroft pushed forward, walking Lestrade back a step to press him carefully against the kitchen island. “You can feel that it is.” He rocked his pelvis, nudging his erection against Lestrade’s hip. </p><p>“That doesn't mean—  Look, I… If you need... “ </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Yes, I need it.” Mycroft kept his eyes down, studying Lestrade’s chin instead of meeting his eyes. It was cowardly, but then, if nothing else Mycroft had of late shown himself to be a coward. “I want it.” </p><p>Lestrade’s body was interested against Mycroft’s, but his sigh communicated his hesitance. Perhaps also his disappointment. “At least you’ll remember this time.”</p><p>Mycroft blinked, looked up. “What?”</p><p>“It was just a kiss.” Lestrade quirked a wry smile. “Don’t worry about it. You were sauced.”</p><p>Mycroft remembered the drinks and the hangover. He had only been heavily intoxicated around Lestrade the once, just after Sherlock came home. More than a year ago. Almost two. And Mycroft had no recollection of ever kissing him. </p><p>“I… I apologize, I—” </p><p>“It’s fine,” Lestrade interrupted gently, and that—  that was the problem, wasn’t it, with him? </p><p>He was a good man. A genuine person. A bit hapless in some respects, but utterly without malice or artifice as far as Mycroft had ever been able to tell. </p><p>Normally a thought like that would settle it. Mycroft would let go, back away, and apologize once more. That would be the correct, most strategically and logically sound decision for him to make. </p><p>Which was, in the end, what made Mycroft ignore it. </p><p>“Will you stay a little longer?” he asked, already bowing his head, moving his lips toward Lestrade’s again. “Please.” </p><p>Lestrade nodded, the motion ending on the upward tilt of his chin. “Yes,” he said.</p><p>Mycroft kissed him again. </p><p>*</p><p>When Mycroft was nearing thirty, the facility in which his sister had been kept in maximum lockdown for almost a decade lost half its funding. Mycroft had tried to prevent it, but due to a series of unfortunate missteps beyond his control or influence, the place was set to be shuttered, its occupants transferred elsewhere by the end of the year. </p><p>It was the year 2000. It had been a difficult one - mainly due to the fact that it was the most successful year of Mycroft’s career to date. There was chatter about a promotion - which was all falsehood, really, since Mycroft knew that he would soon be moved laterally as far as anyone outside of himself, the Security Services, and the crown were concerned. He wanted the move. He wanted the actual promotion that would accompany it and remain unknown, for now, to his colleagues. Mycroft needed it desperately, in fact, now that Sherlock was due to graduate university any day now. </p><p>He needed power, and he needed it quickly. Mycroft had never understood the appeal of such a thing. <em> Power. </em>It all seemed so empty to him when he was a young man. Old men pulling strings, billowing smoke before mirrors in aid of not much more than money and prestige. </p><p>It had always bored him, and in the way only the naive can, he had brushed away the insistence of his elders that one day, he would understand. </p><p>Still, all things considered, it unsettled him. Mycroft took in the chatter and the accolades, the subtle metaphorical pats on the back feeling sometimes like pats on the head, the rumblings of his evolving reputation as one to be feared. And he wondered where the bottom of all this would be. And for whatever reason, it was a cold, rock bottom that Mycroft expected, and not a place high in some proverbial tower. If anyone had known to ask, he would have been unable to explain his reasoning. </p><p>So, a difficult year. Now about to close with a delicate move and a slightly untenable alliance with certain off-books factions of Her Majesty’s Secret Service so that Mycroft might gain access to and some measure of influence over Sherrinford prison. </p><p>And a meeting with Eurus, to inform her. </p><p>He had not spoken to his sister since the night he, then only twenty-one, and his Uncle Rudy, had moved her to the closing facility. </p><p>Nine years later, he sat across from her at a table, and stared at her thin wrists in handcuffs on the table top, trapped there by thick metal. </p><p>She looked like Sherlock. As thin, as pale, and as blank as his brother had appeared the last time Mycroft saw him. </p><p>When Mycroft saw Sherlock with dark circles beneath his eyes and a distinctly malnourished thinness about him, he felt ill and guilty. As if he had failed, in some way, once again, to protect him. </p><p>Faced with Eurus, Mycroft felt… nothing. </p><p>Or close to it. </p><p>She didn’t speak to him. </p><p>“You understand that you are going to be moved?”</p><p>She stared at him, but in an unfocused way, as though she could not see him. </p><p>“It will be different,” Mycroft continues, somewhat at a loss. “But perhaps better. You will have a larger space in which to live. I’m assured that the food there is better.” </p><p>Nothing. </p><p>“Uncle Rudy died some years ago,” Mycroft tried, wondering if something a bit more personal would garner a reaction. </p><p>It did not. </p><p>“Seven years ago,” he added. When she said nothing, did nothing, he said, “You will be taken tomorrow to the new facility.” Mycroft could think of nothing more to say about it. “It’s… by the sea.”</p><p>Eurus’ face did not twitch. She barely appeared to breathe. The rise and fall of her shoulders, the expansion of her chest, were very slow. </p><p>Mycroft should have left then. He should never have come. It had simply felt… incorrect not to. Eurus, as much as she was inhuman, was still a <em> person. </em> She was not a box to be moved from one place of storage to another. It was only right for Mycroft to at least <em> tell </em> her that she would be transferred to Sherrinford. It was only right to try to… if not love her, to care about her at all. It made him uncomfortable to admit how little he had thought of her for years now. </p><p>Instead of leaving, Mycroft said, “Sherlock is finishing a degree in Chemistry.” He regretted saying it immediately. What had possessed him? Some misplaced attempt to humanize the three of them? As if catching up on one another’s ventures and accomplishments would <em> ever </em>have been a thing they did? </p><p>And then, by slow degrees, Eurus’ eyes lifted to his, and the corners of her mouth began to rise with the curve of a smile Mycroft often pictured in his nightmares. </p><p>“And—” Mycroft fought to ignore the cold sweat springing to his skin. “And you… will <em> never </em> see him, or get close to him again. I will make sure of it.” </p><p>She only widened her smile. Her eyes were expressionless voids. Mycroft thought wildly and foolishly, just for a moment, that if her lips parted her teeth would be pointed. </p><p>He shoved his chair back and away from the table, and stood, turning for the door without another word. </p><p>“See you soon, Mycroft,” Eurus said softly to his back. </p><p>He left the room, walked halfway down the hall, and then vomited in a convenient trash can. </p><p>*</p><p>Mycroft snapped awake in the murky hours just before dawn, alone. </p><p>Why he woke thinking of the transfer to Sherrinford all those years ago he did not know. </p><p>He was naked beneath his sheets. The room still smelled vaguely like Lestrade’s laundry soap, deodorant, and cologne mixed with Mycroft’s. And—  and sex. </p><p>Mycroft covered his face with his hands and said the only thing he could think of to summarize the last twenty-four hours of his ignoble life. </p><p>“Fuck.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>You know I don't want to be clever<br/>To be brilliant or superior<br/>True like ice, true like fire<br/>Now I know that a breeze can blow me away<br/>Now I know there's much more dignity<br/>In defeat than in the brightest victory</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>-- Phoenix, "If I Ever Feel Better"</em> </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The sex was good. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>good. Mycroft thought himself a bit under qualified to pass judgment, considering he could only barely remember the last time he’d bothered with it. But it had melted his spine along with his thoughts, and washed it all down some drain. It had allowed him to sleep through the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had gotten him Greg Lestrade - who insisted on being called Greg, not Gregory, not Lestrade, and certainly not Detective Inspector - naked and damned near all over him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Under other circumstances Mycroft might have spent the next day unbelievably smug and unable to push away memories of hands and shifting muscles and a hot mouth. He would be, at least somewhere in his mind as he went about his usual business, floating. He could vaguely remember feeling that way before, and it wasn’t as if he had never imagined bedding the handsome man who always seemed to be smiling with his eyes. He had, many furtive times. Under other circumstances, he would be quite pleased with himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But under other circumstances, it would never have happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Had it been pity that inspired Greg to tilt Mycroft’s head carefully to the side in order to gain access to the side of his neck? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Had he realized that Mycroft wanted him as a way to keep from thinking? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft thought he must have known, but even in the daylight he still couldn’t bring himself to care. He had wanted. Needed.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyone would tell you that Mycroft Holmes was the best at obtaining whatever he set his sights on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had never felt so acutely the ever-widening chasm between Mycroft Holmes and the man Sherlock haughtily called The British Government. He cringed over his breakfast of bland, dry toast, remembering sinking to his knees not a metre from his table. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Desperate. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Clumsy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He dressed, and noticed a marred bit of skin on his hip, a suck mark already turning brown. It wouldn’t last long. But he remembered receiving it. He remembered saying things that he would never… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or had not said in years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Decades. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He burned with embarrassment as he moved through the house, collecting himself in order to make his way to the office. It had occurred to him, sometime around the memory of his fingers tangled in soft grey hair, that while he had been busy dissociating and then engaging in ill-advised sex, Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, and an </span>
  <em>
    <span>infant </span>
  </em>
  <span>had been displaced from their home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unforgivable of him to have allowed himself to stumble so thoroughly. Horrendous that he hadn’t thought to instruct Anthea to ensure their safety and housing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He called for his car at fifteen minutes to seven. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Pardon me,” Anthea said, slipping into the office through a barely-open door, which she shut behind her quickly before leaning against it. “I must be mistaken. You look very much like a man I know who does indeed work in this office. But I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> man to be highly intelligent and capable, and so you, here at eight in the morning the day after an extremely upsetting series of events, could not </span>
  <em>
    <span>possibly </span>
  </em>
  <span>be—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, very droll,” Mycroft said flatly. “If we could dispense with the jokes, I would like an update on the whereabouts of my brother.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea remained at the door for several long moments. “Sir,” she began finally, pushing off to cross to his desk. “Sherlock and Dr Watson, along with Rosamund Watson and Martha Hudson, have been provided accommodation at a very nice hotel while our team readies a safe house for them with the security you would expect and then some. We are able to obtain any items they will require, and they have been assigned a coordinator.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And the hotel security?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the usual, sir,” Anthea said, crossing her arms over her chest and resting a hip against the side of his desk. “Four guards stationed in their hall, as well. Excellent CCTV coverage. No gaps. I was under the impression that you trusted me to act in your stead?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do.” Mycroft looked away. “Of course.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then why, pray tell, are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>here?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft grit his teeth. “Where else would I be?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Home.” Her voice was maddeningly calm and measured. “Resting. Perhaps heading to the countryside for some R&amp;R. Or on a plane to the Maldives for the vacation you have sorely needed for years.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes and forced himself to face her. “I believed you knew me better than that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no idea what to think,” she said seriously. “These last two days have been utterly unprecedented in our time working together. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>honestly</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought you would do the sensible thing and rest.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Mycroft gathered up the papers on his desk with absolutely no idea what any of them were or if they went together. He stacked them and tapped their edges on the desktop. “You were mistaken. I would like a package of briefings in my email within the hour, so that I may catch up from yesterday. Thank you, Anthea.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She lingered there, her eyebrows drawn together and her mouth set in a tight, unhappy line. “Very well, sir,” she said, but lingered at the side of the desk a beat too long, as if waiting for him to change his mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft turned his attention to his computer screen, and did not watch her go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought mutinously that he would vacation when he was dead, and then proceeded to think of nothing else. Mycroft rarely found himself staring blankly at… anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would not leave his mind that he couldn’t quite recall how much of his life had been spent working. How many facets of his life were now tied to the work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t remember his uncle, arguably his greatest influence and primarily role model, being quite so entangled with everything. With anything. Mycroft could in fact recall a very clear line delineating things quite neatly - except when it came to Mycroft himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Nepotism, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Uncle Rudy said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>only exists when it comes to dullards and fools. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dinner parties at the Pall Mall house had been regular - more than once weekly much of the time. When Mycroft was only sixteen and living there for his first year of university, he had never been forced to participate but he often had, happy to sit and observe the goings on. The characters in attendance were colorful and interesting; scandalous, at times. Incredibly fashionable and in-demand at others. Sometimes both. Uncle Rudy rarely hosted work-related gatherings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft moved into the Pall Mall house again when he was twenty-eight, a handful of years after his uncle’s death, when the building in which he had rented was sold. He had never once hosted a party there, work-related or otherwise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The most colorful person he knew was his brother’s landlady.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rubbed at his eyes, gritty from a lack of blinking, and attempted to refocus on the email left ignored on his monitor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>God, he hated the chief of the security services. He felt he ought to type as much into the empty body of his response to yet another supercilious email. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shoved away from the desk and rifled through its top drawer. Cigarettes. He knew he had some. They were eventually unearthed in a crumpled packet under a stack of takeaway menus, and Mycroft drained the last of his cold tea in order to use the mug for ashes before lighting up. His hands shook, and he took a long drag in hopes that it would settle his nerves, only to nearly gag on a tang of nausea at the back of his throat.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cigarette smoke didn’t smell at all like burning carpet and singed wallpaper, the glue melting and giving off acrid fumes. And yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Mycroft had any sense he would get up, take himself out of his office and down the hall to an appropriate office - Smallwood’s, or Sir Gordon’s, and tell them he required coverage for his office’s most basic responsibilities. He would name Anthea as his temporary proxy. And he would get a car to Whitehall and one of the many qualified mental health professionals on hand for exactly this scenario. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though that wasn’t entirely correct. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The job hadn’t done this to Mycroft. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He furiously smoked a second cigarette, filled with a raging self-loathing - one he was familiar with, but which he hadn’t experienced quite so sharply in many years. Possibly not since his adolescence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea entered the room just as he began to consider the possibility that he was suffering some sort of break from reality. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Put that out,” she ordered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft complied, inexplicably cowed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Close out your email and log off.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He narrowed his eyes at her. First names were rare between them, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> in this office. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now,” she repeated, softer this time. “It’s time to go home.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glanced at the clock as he shut down his computer. Lunch hour already. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose I’m to be banished from my own office?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea sighed. “No, sir, not banished. But please do leave, and don’t come back for some time. I have already fielded questions as to why you are in-office today and yet no one can reach you. It… it would </span>
  <em>
    <span>look better</span>
  </em>
  <span> for you to take some time off. No one would blame you for it. A family emergency. I think we both know that it is better that I tell you that it’s time to pack it in before literally anyone else notices.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft tossed the nearly empty cigarette pack back into his desk, and though he wanted to slam the drawer on them, he shut it quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are correct,” he said through his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” she replied pointedly. “I’ll ride with you to the house and you can brief me on at least the next two weeks of pertinent tasks. I have already enlisted the assistance of Lady Smallwood in handling affairs outside of my clearance. Which shouldn’t be much.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Mycroft agreed. “It shouldn’t be.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea left him to shrug into his coat, and he met her in the outer office. She tied the belt on her fashionable trench and straightened with a deep inhale and a bracing smile. “It will all be fine, sir.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t know what to say to that. He let her lead the way out to a waiting car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft wondered if it would be worth calling Lestrade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even as he tried to speak with some authority of the things Anthea ought to look out for in his absence, the back of his mind clicked through a series of slides, stills captured in his memories of the night before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lestrade’s face above his, looking down with some measure of wonder. Lestrade’s stomach and the trail of hair leading down from his navel, under Mycroft’s pale hand, shirt rucked up and trousers left hanging open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s hand being guided away, wrapped between shorter, slightly darker fingers, and laid gently against the mattress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A kiss pressed with closed eyes to the inside of Mycroft’s knee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea wouldn’t have a clue what he was thinking, but it was clear that she could sense his distraction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The car idled in front of the townhouse, and Mycroft knew the next step was to simply exit the vehicle and go inside. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprisingly, Anthea reacted to this hesitance by placing her hand over his between the two of them on the leather seat. “I would like to visit with you,” she murmured. “I mean that. Let me know when my company would be welcome, or I shall simply invite myself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed. “That won’t be necessary.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rest,” she said, hand spasming but not quite gripping his. “Please, get some rest. And talk to your brother. Speak with your family. Do something </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shot her an unimpressed glance, gathering his briefcase from the footwell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean it,” she said with a smile. “Work it all out. Come back to us when you feel you are at your best.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft opened his mouth, and then was unsure what to say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>When have I </span>
  </em>
  <span>ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>been at my best? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Did Anthea know the answer to such a question?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyebrows drew together, a mix of concern and knowing in her eyes. “As long as it takes, sir,” she said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded and shoved open the car door. “You will contact me if—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t need to,” she said. “But yes, if anything arises that I cannot handle, I will reach out to you for your expertise.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I won’t need to. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the most galling part of all of it, Mycroft thought, was that she was correct. He couldn’t bring himself to unload his anger upon her. Not even for this impertinence. He could say all manner of things: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I handpicked you. I saved your life. I </span>
  </em>
  <span>made </span>
  <em>
    <span>you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And it would all be true. But Anthea would be within her rights to say much more back to him. He would not come out the other end of that conversation as the victor. Or even as someone she could respect. To let his anger and powerlessness override his pride for her would be just another unforgivable sin to add to his list. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bit his tongue and stepped out onto the pavement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m telling you to do this because I care about you,” she said, sliding over to the seat he just vacated, hand flung out so he couldn’t close the door. “I hope you realize that. If not now, eventually.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes and stormed to his gate, unlocking it and slamming it behind him without a backward glance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he had to pinpoint a specific date from which The Work sprung, Mycroft could perhaps narrow things down to at least the year. 1986 was just about right. That was the year he began University, a full two years younger than most of his peers. He moved in with Uncle Rudy and lived in the Pall Mall house until he turned eighteen. That had been the deal struck between Mycroft and his mother, who would under no circumstances allow him to live unsupervised at sixteen years of age. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wished to attend Oxford. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hm.” His mother had turned away to busy herself at the kitchen bench. “If wishes were fishes, Mycroft. You may choose to attend Oxford when you are eighteen and not a day sooner.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was immovable, sticking to the arbitrary age she had chosen to mark his independence. So he had waited, and then changes schools the very second he could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been particularly frustrating when, one term into his time at Oxford, Mycroft realized how very much he missed London and his uncle, UCL and his daily tube ride to campus. He wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, to himself or anyone else, but his time at Oxford had been intensely unhappy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had only been the year he returned to London, his uncle having (unbeknownst to Mycroft just yet) freshly faked his sister's death, that things - paradoxically - would look up for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he let himself into his house the day after his sister murdered several people in front of him, Mycroft couldn’t understand why those long-dead feelings were on his mind. And that was most likely a problem. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should have understood his own </span>
  <em>
    <span>thoughts, </span>
  </em>
  <span>at least. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He poured himself a drink at one in the afternoon, and then called his brother from the desk chair in his study. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s eyes closed. “Do you remember when I left for University?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a silence that, had it been occupied by two other men from some other world, would have been classed as ‘stunned.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock made a noncommittal sound. “More or less,” he said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever wondered why she allowed you to go off on your own when you were young, after not allowing me to do so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock said nothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose not,”  Mycroft mused. “It’s only that it seems particularly odd to me, considering you didn’t have an Uncle Rudy to watch you. She hadn’t trusted me to do it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You weren’t in the country at the time,” Sherlock said, almost defensive. Then, after a pause, in a tone in which Mycroft could hear sheepishness and mischief in equal measure. “Besides, I had rather driven her mad by then. I think she was glad to be rid of me. She finally replaced all the crockery the year I left, you know.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft found himself smiling. “I don’t think she was glad to be rid of you, Sherlock.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was another long silence. “Mycroft. Are you—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you need anything, Sherlock? You or John? Mrs Hudson? Things for the… for Dr Watson’s daughter?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rosie,” Sherlock murmured, distracted. “Her name is Rosie. And we’re fine. Are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm.” Sherlock sighed. “Your assistant found us temporary housing near Rosie’s creche. Thank you for arranging it for us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For us. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft wondered what that would come to mean, now that all was said and done. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would that I could take credit,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid I’ve rather let the side down. Thank Anthea, not me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll thank whoever I want.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyway.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Should we talk about… her? Should we go to see Mummy and Daddy?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft cringed with his entire body. “No.” His fingers tightened around his mobile and the rocks glass in his hand. “No, not… not yet. I’ll tell them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll tell them together.” Sherlock proposed. “You can make the arrangements when you feel it’s time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t have the faintest idea what to say. He didn’t know how to interpret a single part of this conversation. He felt the urge to apologize. To beg forgiveness for all of his flaws and mistakes. He felt like admonishing Sherlock for what was clearly a growing idealism, taking root in him again as if Eurus’ existence created fertile ground where Mycroft in all his ineptitude had left salted earth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get some sleep, brother,” Sherlock said after a long silence. “Everyone is safe. Even you. John is taking a sabbatical from work, and Mrs. Hudson is going to visit her sister. It’s… a reprieve is... Good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Mycroft forced himself to say. “Yes, good. Speak soon.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ended the call before Sherlock could say anything else sensible and </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft lay in bed. He didn’t have the wherewithal to change the sheets, though he would do so before the cleaner came to stock the cupboards and take care of laundry and light chores around the place. For now, he could still smell the faint traces of someone else in the fibers. He resolutely did not bury his face in the pillows to seek it out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m not doing that,” Lestrade - Greg - had said firmly even as he pressed Mycroft down into the pillows. “My hands are bloody shaking as it is, Mycroft, and it’s late, and you—  I can’t. Just lie back, sweetheart, I’ll take care of things.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft blinked up at the ceiling. What sort of man turned down an uncomplicated fuck? What sort of man did </span>
  <em>
    <span>all that work </span>
  </em>
  <span>for no reason? Who was that… </span>
  <em>
    <span>gentle? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It shouldn’t have been so baffling. It wasn’t as if Mycroft had only been with brutes, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> engaged in cold exchanges of orgasm for the purposes of stress relief. But it had been a long time. Full stop. A long time since he did anything that could be termed </span>
  <em>
    <span>sex, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and even longer (far longer) since sex had been… </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, my god—” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lestrade’s—  Greg’s chuckle rumbled against Mycroft’s thigh. “Breathe.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Let me—” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Nope.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mycroft had wanted to kick him. Had wanted to hook a leg around him and draw him back in then hold him there with his thighs. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Greg pushed up to look at him, a warm hand holding Mycroft by the hip. “I’ll get you there,” he promised, dark eyes warm and teasing in the low light. “Promise.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And then he ducked back down again. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s breath shuddered out of him. What was he to do with any of this? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What was the point? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was unlikely to be held captive on a prison island by his psychotic sister ever again (</span>
  <em>
    <span>please god) </span>
  </em>
  <span>and, similarly, the impromptu and ill-advised sex was a one-off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now Mycroft would feel the absence of body heat more acutely. For a while, anyway. It would pass eventually. But his eidetic memory would betray him for years to come, he was sure. It always had before. Sherlock’s “delete” function didn’t exist, and Mycroft had never been able to even fool himself into believing one could manage such a thing. It had always made him a bit jealous of his younger brother. How convenient it must be to succeed at closing oneself off from whatever information one does not wish to keep or remember. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft had been working since he was sixteen years old. He had existed in a sphere of his own since at least then, if not for longer, and had accepted long ago that much of his life would be solitary. It had been, and would continue to be, fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The vague burn of disappointment was nothing more than the result of over-exhaustion and stress. Anthea had been correct. Mycroft needed to rest. To move past it. To get on with things. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm so glad you guys are here for this angst! Find me on twitter @belledorsey_ or @meansgirlwrites</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter deals with depression, upsetting memories, and other sad things. See tags!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Then one day he went away and I thought I'd die, but I didn't</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And when I didn't I said to myself</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that all there is to love?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that all there is, is that all there is?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-- Peggy Lee, "Is That All There Is" </span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s only serious romantic relationship had been doomed from the start. That’s what he thought, anyway, once the dust had settled. It had gone like this: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Uncle Rudy died, and left Mycroft the house, quite a lot of money, and a car Mycroft didn’t know how to drive. It had only been three years since Rudy had faked Eurus’ death in a hospital fire. He might have done it and then never have told Mycroft about it, had he not just been told that this time he would not survive treatment for a recurring case of lung cancer. He did the deed, involving Mycroft in it out of necessity immediately after the fact. If he dropped dead the day after, the week after, any time before it was all arranged and cemented, there would be a mess on everyone’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a bit ironic that it took another few years for the cancer to finish him off. Days before he died, he admitted to Mycroft that he wished he had never done it, though Mycroft would never know if he meant that he should never have involved Mycroft, or that he wished he had actually murdered Eurus instead of imprisoning her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flaws and all, Mycroft was devastated to lose the old man, and felt very selfish for it. What right did he have to wish to keep the man around and in pain, simply to absolve Mycroft of the responsibilities he had agreed to assume? What right did Mycroft have to rage against the natural order of things?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed up the Pall Mall house and remained in the flat he hardly ever occupied. It was located in a mildly disreputable street that couldn’t quite be considered part of the nearby bohemian neighborhood, but which was close enough to be called “interesting” by Mycroft’s mother the single time she visited. He liked the flat quite a lot, and couldn’t bring himself to occupy the house without his uncle in it. Not just yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At twenty-three years old, Mycroft was only two years out of his graduate studies, and a little more than two years into a stint as a field agent. He was already making preparations to change career tracks. His uncle had been right - Mycroft was not built for it. Still, when the security services came knocking, Mycroft was angry, livid that his uncle had done what he had done with Eurus. For the first time in his life he made a decision based on a feeling. A decision that went against his most trusted mentor’s wishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it became clear what a mistake that choice had been, Mycroft often thought how glad he was that Uncle Rudy wasn’t there to see him fail so miserably. Not that he would have been smug or harsh about it - and his kindness likely would have only made it worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was home in London, exhausted and shaken from his last trip, with no upcoming travel scheduled for the first time in months. He was hopeful that things would go his way, and there would be no further field assignments for him. He had committed himself to enjoying the time off, regardless of what may or may not happen at the end of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so, when he met Andrew, his guard was very much down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the time, Mycroft didn’t have the slightest clue what love felt like. As a matter of fact, he didn’t notice that he felt anything other than attraction and fascination for months, and once he did notice, he had a mild panic and hurried to scour Andrew’s background for anything suspect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be just Mycroft’s luck if, in the moment he managed to do the sensible thing with himself, his career got torpedoed by some Russian spy posing as a young, gay, aspiring museum curator who had an inexplicable </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>for awkward, over-educated gingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Andrew had been… perfect. Or, at least, perfectly safe. And in time, Mycroft was sure that he was perfect, full stop. Good-looking, funny, </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and somehow amused by Mycroft’s inability to say much about work, or operate a laundromat dryer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I send my clothes out,” Mycroft had stammered on their third ‘date,’ having been assured by Andrew that a laundrette was a perfectly acceptable location for such things, so long as one brought along a bottle of wine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had all felt so… different. Mycroft had never met anyone like Andrew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrew, who rolled his eyes and passed Mycroft the wine bottle, then said, “Bless your posh heart,” and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>kissed him in public.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It had felt briefly like magic. It was the early nineties, and while Mycroft hadn’t had anything like a normal experience as a gay man in Britain at the time, he had been as terrified as anyone else by HIV and AIDS, by violence, and by the potential for his sexuality to lose him his job. By 1993, though, the shape of things was clearer. The ban on homosexuals in the security services had been lifted. And Mycroft decided to allow himself to want someone in a long-term sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had moved in together quickly, occupying Mycroft’s flat in the semi-bohemian street. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That </span>
  </em>
  <span>house?” Andrew had exclaimed, standing with Mycroft on the pavement in Pall Mall. “You own </span>
  <em>
    <span>that?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft felt vaguely ill. “Well. Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrew laughed and slipped a hand into Mycroft’s back pocket, tilting their bodies together and shaking his head. “We can’t live there, it’s gigantic. Maybe in a few years if we get a dog. Several dogs. We’ll need more space, then. Besides, you don’t want to live there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you haven’t lived there all this time. Must have been for a reason.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mycroft had felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>known. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Less than a year after they moved in together, Andrew died in a traffic accident while visiting his mother in Manchester. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one told Mycroft for days. Andrew’s mother had not known about Mycroft. A coworker came to the flat and informed him, having overheard the telephone call when Andrew’s work supervisor was told. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had felt shock, and a grief so deep and sharp that he had been convinced he could die of it. But an insistent voice in his head that grew louder day by day said that it wasn’t a surprise at all. In retrospect Mycroft would wonder if that was a defense mechanism, a way of accepting that something so beyond his ability to repair or control could end the best thing he had ever had, without his consent, and even without his knowledge. It had happened while he slept, or while he worked, and Mycroft hadn’t known it. Hadn’t felt it. By the time he knew of it, it was long over. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Doomed,</span>
  </em>
  <span> said the voice in his head, </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had no idea why he thought of nothing but Andrew for the duration of the car ride to Rosie Watson’s first birthday celebration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t as if they had ever discussed children. Such a thing hadn’t even occurred to them at the time, and they had been together for so short a time that Mycroft couldn’t even begin to imagine how such a conversation would ever have come about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both liked dogs. Hounds, especially. They both loved dinner out and films in. Wine. Late-80s new wave. Mycroft was always cold and Andrew always over-warm. Mycroft despaired over Andrew’s inability to coordinate patterns and colors in his clothing, and Andrew thought Mycroft was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>a little </span>
  </em>
  <span>too prissy sometimes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft knew that it had been love. But he was realistic. It had been brief, and they had been young. And he had no way of knowing if he would have managed to make it last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearly a month away from work, and Mycroft was beginning to wallow in his own past as well as attending toddler birthday parties. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How the mighty have fallen. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t help but try to dredge up the sound of Andrew’s laugh when it was (gently) at Mycroft’s expense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t manage it, which had stopped distressing him years and years ago. He straightened the bow on the gift resting beside him in the back seat of the car just as it slowed to a stop in front of 221’s temporary replacement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” the warm voice said just to Mycroft’s left, startling him out of a blankness he hadn’t noticed settling over him like a sheet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft cleared his throat and offered Greg Lestrade a tight smile. “Hello.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t have thought this sort of thing was your scene,” Lestrade said, holding out a small plastic cup filled with wine. “Need one of these?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft blinked and realized that Lestrade’s other hand held a beer bottle. He had specifically brought Mycroft a drink. “I… yes, I think I do,” he said, and took the cup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Molly said it’s decent,” Lestrade told him, watching Mycroft take a sip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Mycroft half-nodded, half-tilted his head. “Sherlock chose this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “‘Course he did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft cleared his throat, a nervous tic he seemed incapable of controlling lately. He cast about for something intelligent to say. “She seems… healthy,” he managed. “Rosamund, I mean. The baby.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade followed Mycroft’s line of sight to the baby in question. She was sat in the center of a pile of discarded gift wrap. She was playing with it, sticking sellotape to her tiny fingers and staring bewildered at it. Crunching shiny paper into balls she tried to throw at her father. Her gifts had been, at John’s request, mainly clothing and books. She ignored the few toys in favor of the magic of garbage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, she’s pretty as a picture.” Lestrade grinned. “Makes me miss my niece when she was that tiny.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had no idea what to say to that. “I…” he cleared his throat again. At this rate, Lestrade would think he possessed a disgustingly inordinate amount of phlegm. “If I recall correctly, you have a niece and a nephew?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You recall correctly,” Lestrade said. “Amy and Joshua, aged sixteen and fourteen. Too cool for their old uncle, at this point.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head. “I doubt that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe me, they are </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too cool. Hoping one of ‘em will come back around one of these days. Eventually they’re going to need to learn to drive, and their mum’s pants at it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft managed to quirk his mouth up on one side, and hoped it looked like a passable smile. “I’m sure they will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, listen—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had half a second to brace himself for an embarrassing personal conversation involving being let down gently in the middle of a child’s birthday party, before Lestrade’s mobile rang. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Lestrade hissed under his breath. “Ah, it’s my Sergeant. I’ll have to take this. I’m not on duty, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh course.” Mycroft smiled again, even managing to get the other side of his mouth involved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade seemed about to say something truly terrible, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you alright, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but the trill of his mobile had him shifting into an apologetic shrug and stepping into the kitchen, away from the noise of the party. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft resisted the strange urge to watch him go, and instead turned his attention to his brother. When he first arrived at the party, it had taken him aback how well Sherlock looked. It was possibly the best he had looked since before he ever picked up a needle. It was something in the way he held his shoulders. In the lightness of his brow and the ease in his spine. It was a revelation, and it should have been thrilling. Here was the Sherlock Mycroft had been working to save for decades. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mycroft felt… strangely tired. He was pleased, of course. But…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m finished, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought nonsensically, and then felt a sudden, intense wave of nausea. He swallowed it down with the last of his wine and wondered if he really believed that. Was he finished? Did he wish to be? What did that mean? His immediate gut instinct was too melodramatic to take seriously. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If she escaped custody and murdered me in my bed tonight, it would be alright. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft breathed through the exhilaration that replaced the sickly feeling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They would all be fine. I would be fine, because I would be dead. It would be over and finished. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed to get out of this room. Out of this bland government-issue house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft startled for a second time that day. “Oh—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want a ride home?” Lestrade jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “That was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>please come into the office </span>
  </em>
  <span>call. I could drop you off on my way. Looked like you were gearing up to get out of here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shuddered to think what he must have looked like, to make Lestrade think that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Yes, that would be—  my car would take at least fifteen minutes to—  that is—  Yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good god. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great.” Lestrade rocked back on his heels. “That’s good. Okay. I’m going to make the rounds then. Going to say bye to Sherlock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded, having no intention of doing that at all. As Lestrade moved away, he began to edge around the perimeter of the room, heading for the door. He could wait outside; the cool air would do him some good. He did make it out the door, but a half-second after it shut behind him, it opened again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Poor form,” John Watson said, sliding outside in his absurd jumper. “Didn’t say goodbye to the birthday girl.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft blinked at the man, finding himself uncharacteristically slow on the uptake. “I—  My apologies, I have an appointment I must get to. I hope that Rosamund enjoys the rest of her day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” John crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a hip against the stone balustrade next to the door of the house. “You alright, Mycroft?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft couldn’t hold back a small sound of disbelief. “Do I appear to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>not alright?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” said John bluntly. “Of course you do. I wouldn’t expect you to appear alright if you were anyone else. You’ve been through—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An </span>
  <em>
    <span>ordeal, </span>
  </em>
  <span>yes,” Mycroft snapped. “As have you. As has my brother. As have most people on planet Earth. As everyone keeps reminding me, yes, I have. What is your point, Doctor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John quirked an unimpressed eyebrow, lips puckered out as he nodded and made a show of thinking before answering. “My point is that you might consider dealing with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft returned John’s expression with one of his own - disbelief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut up,” John said, in the same way Sherlock might. “Yes, I’m aware you read my therapist’s notes when I first met Sherlock and you’ve probably continued to do it for all these years, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>utter creep. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m aware that I am a pot and you are a kettle. The fact remains, you have got to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft. You aren’t alright.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well.” Mycroft turned away. “Thank you for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard John sigh behind him, and then the door opening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, hey, Greg.” John’s feet shuffled as he moved to make way for Lestrade ot exit. “Anyway, Mycroft, thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure you would, but I’m glad you did. Sherlock’s glad you did. Know you don’t believe it, but… Y’know. Anyway. Have a good one, gents.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that about?” Lestrade asked, stepping down from the small stoop to join Mycroft on the pavement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no idea,” Mycroft replied. “Shall we?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shall,” Lestrade said with a grin, and led the way down the block to his car. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The ride to Mycroft’s house was not long, and it was mostly silent. Thankfully, Lestrade didn’t try to fill it with chatter, or draw Mycroft into conversation. Not even of a personal nature. It was surprising and a massive relief. Mycroft allowed his mind to drift, and was a bit startled to find they were turning into his street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look,” Lestrade said before the car had stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft braced himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was wondering if you would be interested in… uhm… Well I wanted to invite you to dinner.” Lestrade parked in the usual place in front of Mycroft’s gate - the spot had remained unoccupied since the first night he brought Mycroft there a month ago. “Maybe Friday?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft processed this and then turned to look at Lestrade, who sat with his hands held patiently in his lap, his eyes warm and his lips pulled up in a hopeful smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was disarming, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” Mycroft reached for words. For some polite fiction he could use to decline. Instead, he said, “Perhaps… no. I don’t think I—  That would—.” And then, horrified at himself, he settled on, “Perhaps some other time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade didn’t let his smile slip. He simply nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine. I mean, you have my number.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade nodded again. “That’s good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is.” Mycroft was merely relieved it didn’t leave his mouth in the form of a question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade’s smile began to melt a bit at the corners, but not in the way Mycroft had been expecting. It was—  Lestrade’s eyes crinkled even more deeply at the corners and he seemed to find all of this </span>
  <em>
    <span>amusing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it was an awful time for you,” he said after a moment. “But I figured since you hadn’t sent the ninjas to murder me, you didn’t exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>regret</span>
  </em>
  <span> things.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Things. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft marveled at this succinct one-word summary of what they had done. He could think of </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Lestrade kept speaking, more improbably phrases falling from his mouth like tiny bombs, scattering Mycroft’s composure to the winds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, I really… it was good, I thought. And I’d be interested in doing it again. But with dinner. That’s what I’m saying.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was painful. Mycroft thought, again, of Andrew. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“This was good,” he’d said on his doorstep after Mycroft took him to dinner the first time. “Again? My treat? Soon as possible?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt that vague nausea again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What </span>
  </em>
  <span>had gotten into him today? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some other time,” he said again. “But—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then for reasons unknown to him, Mycroft unfastened his seatbelt, leaned across the center console of the car, and pressed his mouth to Greg Lestrade’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade made a soft, sweet sound that threatened to break down the last of Mycroft’s common sense, and opened beautifully to the kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft found himself testing the heat of the man’s cheek with his fingers as he slipped his tongue between gasping lips, and for a hot series of seconds he simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>kissed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And did not think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for the ride,” he said when he ripped himself away, and then exited the car as quickly as he could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slammed the door behind him and made it through his gate, up the walk , and through the door without looking back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was not one for weeping, and never had been. He could not explain the sting in his eyes as he made his way through the house, shedding coat and jacket, and then tie and waistcoat, cufflinks and shoes and braces all falling where they landed, a trail that followed his trajectory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found himself in the master bath, watching the bathtub fill with steaming water - and not gently steaming. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Steaming.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hot. Bracing. He lowered himself into it with a swallowed cry at the burn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his head resting on his clenched fists, elbows propped against his bent knees, Mycroft struggled to breathe. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I promise things will get better &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>I had hopes, but the hopes all fell</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span><em>-- Aimee Mann, "Stuck In The Past"</em> </span>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft burned with the inaction of an open-ended sabbatical from work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hated it violently, and out of spite refused to do anything at all for the first week. He paced his house like a caged animal. He lay on the sofa in the den, sloth-like, smoking and staring at nothing. He read terrible, irredeemable novels from his uncle’s old collection. He slept half the day away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stared at his extensive film collection, but never did manage to choose anything to watch. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>AN (6:00pm): </b>
  <span>It is depression. Please make an appointment with a doctor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft just barely managed not to pitch his mobile across the room. He wasn’t depressed, he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>furious. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He went for an aimless walk, and bought a bag of pastries which he then ate, one-by-one, all at once, standing over the kitchen sink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fact that he spent that evening nauseated to the point of incapacitation had little to do with all of the sugar and butter, and everything to do with the deep and unshakable knowledge that he was losing his ability to care at all about anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ought to have saved some of the pastry. It might have helped him swallow the feeling down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He poured himself a drink instead. John Watson called soon after to invite him to a child’s birthday party. Truth be told, Mycroft went because it was something to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The problem with inaction paired with an active mind was memory. Mycroft knew that insufferable people over-confident of their own intelligence would say nonsense about forgetting more than most people would ever know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mycroft rarely forgot anything. He hadn’t always thought of it as a curse. But some days…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Michael Prejean. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft woke one morning of the third week away from work, and that was the name circling his mind as if on a ticker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been the name of the boy down the road at the Sussex house - the house his parents moved them all into after Musgrave burned to the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had thought he was beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had hung on his every word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft left Sussex for London. He did not miss Sussex a bit. He did not spare his parents a thought. He did miss his brother. And he also missed Michael Prejean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never saw him again, of course, and the sparkly-eyed boy with the country accent and the beautiful shoulders would have faded into the usual pile of childhood myths any person holds onto in their life. Even Mycroft had those. Memories he could probably find if he needed them, but in general never thought of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Were it not for an unusually quiet day in the common room, that’s probably what would have become of Michael in Mycroft’s mind. But Mycroft would always be in some way tragic. In some way… unlucky, perhaps. Then again, he didn’t quite believe in luck, so it must have been a form of incompetence. Some flaw in him that made even something so mundane as a passing crush would become a defining failure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It happened the week he was preparing to leave Oxford. It had been a long several days spent defending his thesis while also working with the office to arrange travel to Kharkov in the coming weeks. In between tedious meetings and tedious phone calls, Mycroft was also beginning the arduous process of packing his books in order to move back to London. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been pure happenstance, his catching a televised news report. Mycroft rarely bothered with them, but he was caught waiting for a phone call in the common room, and hardly anyone else was around. It was quiet, and he had slipped into an absent stare half-focused on the television droning in the corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only snapped to attention a moment before the grainy mugshot disappeared from the screen, the presenter’s grave face filling it to deliver the details of a recent, well-publicized trial. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was how Mycroft found out that Michael Prejean was convicted on charges of serial sexual assault, having been caught by police at the end of a year-long violent spree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had barely known him. Michael Prejean likely never had a clue that Mycroft Holmes existed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But some stupid part of Mycroft had thought him lovely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had made him ill to think of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a dreadful Summer, after that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft woke up one morning over twenty years later, and couldn’t stop thinking about it. Of course, one couldn’t exactly discard or allow the fading of a memory of a person who turned out to be a monster. But Mycroft hadn’t thought of this one in particular in decades. Why that day? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t pinpoint a trigger. Couldn’t trace his steps back to whatever tripwire conjured this person to his memory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Michael Prejean haunted Mycroft’s thoughts for days after. He found himself thinking the strangest, most irrational things. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I had been told then what he would do just years later, would I have believed? Or would I have been blinded by his charm and my own naivete? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Had Mycroft been the sort of young person who mistook a face that just happened to be pleasing for one that was honest? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t remember, exactly. For all his excellent memory, it was difficult to think back from his forties to his adolescence and reconstruct his own moral compass. Such as it is and such as it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, once he had finally managed to throw the mental image of Michael Prejean back down into the abyss, and subsequently spent days wondering why now he could think only of Andrew, Mycroft came to the conclusion that he no longer controlled his thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would have terrified him, at one time. Now he found himself strangely willing to accept it. After all, the results of his supposed control hadn’t exactly been positive.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea arrived on Wednesday evening the week following the birthday party and  at the tail end of Mycroft’s reckoning with his inexplicably turbulent mental landscape. She was toting several Waitrose bags and her laptop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to let me in or leave me standing out here with the makings of your favorite pasta in hand?” She mocked him with her eyes. “Go on. Slam the door in my face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolled his eyes and stepped aside, waving her grandly into the house. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I miss you,” she replied simply, and took herself to the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A while later, over plates of linguine and scallops, they engaged in a silent stare-down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea broke first. “Oh, for the love of—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not—” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be angry at me for forcing you into this sabbatical if you aren’t going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>use it.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t presume to tell me what I can and cannot be angry about.” Mycroft shoved his plate away. “This entire exercise is utterly futile. I should be working. I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>imagine </span>
  </em>
  <span>the damage being done in my absence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea took a delicate bite of pasta and chewed, eyes narrowing. After she had wiped the corner of her mouth and returned her napkin to her lap, she said, “It is not easy without you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Really.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>“Of course, really,” she said. “We need you. This country</span> <span>needs you. But I am more than capable of holding down the fort, so to speak, if it gives </span><em><span>you </span></em><span>time to take care of yourself. I wasn’t aware that you would behave so appallingly when I suggested time away.” </span></p><p>
  <span>“Suggested,” Mycroft sneered, making his issue with the term clear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face filled with disbelief. “Suggested, yes!” She gestured with her fork. “Am I to believe that you feel I forced your hand? I can’t force you to do anything! You are my </span>
  <em>
    <span>superior! </span>
  </em>
  <span>But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> correct. If you had not requested the time yourself, the state you are in would have been noticed and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>have been forced. Is that what you would have preferred? If so, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>deeply </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry for asking you not to sink your career and mine along with it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft could not unclench his jaw to respond. </span>
</p><p><span>“Sherrinford was a cock up on an </span><em><span>epic </span></em><span>scale,” Anthea continued, her voice as calm and precise as it ever was, but with an edge of hardness that made his skin prickle with irritation and defensiveness. “And no one cares that it was your sister, they </span><em><span>care</span></em><span> that you compromised national security. It is only your good credit that is saving us both,</span> <span>and you used up quite a lot of it after Sherlock shot a man at point blank range in front of witnesses and on video</span><em><span>. </span></em><span>I hope you fully appreciate that.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“I do,” he bit out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Anthea stood and collected their plates. “That’s good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dishes clattered into the sink. Mycroft turned to watch her and she turned to watch him, leaning against the worktop with her arms folded elegantly across her body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than anything,” she said. “I am worried about you. I have never seen you like this. You look positively gray, and I don’t know if you realize how frequently your hands shake. And I know that for you to be so affected it must be not just bad but horrific.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. “If I could work, I would—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Work does not cure all ills, and you know it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would you have me do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea crossed the kitchen and paused by his chair. Placing a hand on his shoulder she leaned down, bringing their eyes level. Hers swept his face, seeming  to scrape through his thoughts. Her fingers squeezed around his muscle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A doctor would be a good start,” she said. “And I would think that handling this family matter by </span>
  <em>
    <span>speaking with your family </span>
  </em>
  <span>would be a sensible thing to do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t imagine how much more complicated this situation is than simply speaking with my family.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea smiled thinly. “I’ve been handling Sherrinford’s renovation and re-staff,” she said. “That process has involved an extensive review of all files and incident reports going back to the nineties. I am well aware of just how complicated it is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft felt suddenly terrible for putting her through all of this. For forcing her to fight with him. For blaming her for his own shortcomings. He relented, and covered the hand on his shoulder with one of his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he said, all of the fight leaving him at once. All of his authority slipped away between his lax fingers. “Thank you, Anthea, for managing it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers squeezed again. “Of course,” she said. “But—” She let her hand slip away, turning it to brush her palm to his as she did. “Your notes on the counter-terrorism budget in March are completely indecipherable, even for me. Will you pour me a martini in the den and help me make sense of it all? Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be beneath him to literally jump at the chance to work on </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it was a near thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That night he lay awake and wondered what the renovation and re-staff looked like. He closed his eyes and tried to formulate scenarios based on Anthea’s familiar thought patterns. Who would she turn to for each piece of the puzzle? Who could still be trusted? Smallwood, absolutely. Perhaps Mycroft’s first protege, Lourdes, now occupying a high level position within MI-6. Lourdes would be a smart choice for redesigning the security. She was something of a sociopath herself, and Mycroft had spent many nights reading briefs detailing her time in the field thanking whatever higher power might exist despite his atheism that she chose to be on their side and no one else’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, Lourdes would be good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A woman for governor, too. Anthea would build a team of mostly women, which was absolut correct. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not lost on Mycroft that since her childhood, Eurus’ care and protection - and protection of others </span>
  <em>
    <span>from </span>
  </em>
  <span>her - had fallen to a series of men. All of her doctors before she was moved, they had all been men. Uncle Rudy. Mycroft. The dead governor. Moriarty, even. Men and their hubris, making all the wrong choices, giving too much or not enough, expecting the world to bend to their whim. Getting themselves splattered all over glass walls all for the chance to be the one person who could resist Eurus’ methods. A woman would perhaps understand Eurus in different and better ways, and would never be so foolish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was disappointed in himself; this wasn’t news. But it brought him some small amount of pleasure to foist some of the blame off onto other members of his sex. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why not? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had lost the thread of his thoughts again. To his relief it had been happening a little less in recent days, his mind seeming to heal from whatever schism had formed over the long hours left in Eurus’ cell contemplating his failure and his terror. But it was still happening, and Mycroft still struggled to want to stop it from happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolled and punched his pillow, hard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grit his teeth and closed his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he remembered Eurus’ face when he moved her to Sherrinford. She had managed to snap the neck of the first guard - privately hired security - who tried to cuff her and lead her to transport. She arrived at the island fully restrained, strapped to a gurney, and insensate from tranquilizers. She had been awake, but not lucid. Her eyes had moved toward Mycroft - or at least to where he stood, just outside the door to her cell. And she had smiled and looked away and giggled, under her breath at first, and then in hiccuping coughs, and then loudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft followed them in. Watched a syringe enter her arm to put her back down before the straps and cuffs were detached. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On three,” one of the guards said, and on that man’s count a group of guards transferred her sleeping form to the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft watched an armed nurse step forward and take vitals. “She’s fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt a sick lurch of disappointment. It would only take a little accident with the tranq dose and she would cease to be his problem. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he wished someone would dose </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>for thinking such a horrendously awful thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can’t let it harden your heart, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Uncle Rudy told him once, of the work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eurus had perhaps hardened Mycroft long before the security services ever got the chance to do so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, Mycroft thought in the here and now, having turned onto his back once more to stare at his bedroom ceiling, he had never felt so cold when it was Sherlock on a gurney. Or Sherlock pale against white sheets. He would have never hoped that one day, Sherlock might overdose and not recover. Never, he would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> have wanted that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had he </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> loved his younger sister? Had she </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>not terrified him? Mycroft was only six when she was born. His memory was long and usually very exact with regard to imagery and words, but he could not recall what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt </span>
  </em>
  <span>like to hear her cry or see her sleeping or growing or playing. He could only conjure up the cold terror that would seize him when he heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock</span>
  </em>
  <span> cry as a small child. He could only remember ever looking at Eurus and worrying, worrying, worrying. Had he ever worried </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> her, or was it always Sherlock he cared about? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Only </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sherlock? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it was, was it Mycroft’s fault? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallowed hard against the familiar, sickly rise of nausea up his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Go to sleep, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he told himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t. He didn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the morning he had texts. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>AN(6:24am): </b>
  <span>Did you sleep? A doctor might help with that. Call yours. Dinner next week, same time? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>and</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(7:16am): </b>
  <span>Hey - do you still like the cinema? Double feature at the old place down the road from me tomorrow. One’s Italian, looks broody and brainy, seemed like something you might like. Dinner and a film? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft saw it as progress that he immediately wanted to say yes to both invitations - though, he thought wryly, Anthea’s was not an invitation to him but rather to herself to invade the house again. He wouldn’t lie to himself by thinking that he hadn’t very much liked having her there the night before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Anthea, he wrote: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Next Wednesday would be fine. I will order in. Paella is still your favorite? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>To Lestrade: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am otherwise engaged this weekend, but perhaps next week. Thank you for thinking of me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There. He sent the text and nodded to himself. Yes, he was allowed to call that progress. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>And now we're gathered in the shadow of your family tree<br/>In halted harmony<br/>Brought down by an old idea whose time has come</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>--TV On The Radio, "Family Tree"</span>
  </em>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He went to his parents that weekend. There was a brief text exchange with Sherlock before Mycroft left, warning him, and another with Anthea to ensure Sherrinford would be ready for them to be there once all had been revealed. His parents would demand to be taken to Eurus, he knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>AN(5:03pm): </b>
  <span>Yes, of course. Lourdes will be present to oversee security and determine any vulnerabilities which might be present when visitors are on the island. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>AN(5:07pm): </b>
  <span>Apologies, I know you don’t wish to be read in on the specifics. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(5:12pm): </b>
  <span>It’s quite alright. It brings me great peace of mind to know that you went to Lourdes. A very good choice. </span>
  <span>I may have been hasty when I</span>
</p><p><span>He deleted the last half-sentence before pressing send. He had no need and no desire stemming from any positive place within himself to know anything about Sherrinford’s operation. More than that, the optics of his involvement, no matter how small, would not work in their favor. Anthea’s assessment of his management of things as a ‘cock-up on an epic</span> <span>scale’ had been quite succinctly correct. </span></p><p>
  <span>Mycroft packed for a weekend in Sussex, and decided to have his driver take him to the train station rather than drive him out. He could people-watch on the train, and Mycroft needed something to occupy his mind for the journey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the right choice. The nerves that had tangled themselves together in the pit of his stomach since he decided on the trip began to ease as he commenced a leisurely deduction of the woman sat across from him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thirty-three, pending divorce, two children, two cats; acute nerve pain from carpal tunnel syndrome, sciatica, pinched nerve in the neck. Desk worker, then. Logo on the bag - she works at a public university, perhaps the bursar’s office. Overdue for a root touch up, she’s gone prematurely grey— </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Here, Mycroft’s thoughts strayed from the woman with the very common life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was he to do about Lestrade? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two invitations out, and Mycroft knew there would be another within the week. Lestrade was that sort of person. The kind of man who would propose outings, dinners, lunches, and amiably take the answer ‘some other time’ until… some other time. If Mycroft told him, bluntly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then he knew he would be left alone. Lestrade would let it go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which begged the question - why hadn’t Mycroft said no to either invitation? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew it was pointless. Futile. That it would be terribly unfair to Lestrade to say yes. Mycroft was sure he could manage a dinner or two. Could certainly engage in more sex like the kind they had that awful night - likely better, without the clinging dark fibers of Eurus’ games stuck all over all of it. It would be satisfying, at first, for both of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there was no scenario that Mycroft could imagine or predict that resulted in things going well beyond another couple of encounters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t dated in decades, and even if that </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>something he did anymore, now was not the time by anyone’s standards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next time, he would say no. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft brought Anthea to his parents’ home once. Sherlock had ducked all attempts to wrangle him for a Christmas visit that year, and Mycroft had known that it would be quiet. Anthea had been back on British soil and working in Mycroft’s employ for less than six months, and he knew she had nowhere and no one to go to in order to spend the holiday. He had made her attendance sound compulsory, letting it sound like a working holiday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he refused to discuss work, and spent the first day watching his mother confuse and endear herself to his assistant with her vacillations between dotty bluster and sharp-eyed intelligence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father had said, “Well, she’s quite pretty, isn’t she?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had replied, “How should I know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father elbowed him. “Come now, Myc, I don’t have a clue about gentlemen, do I, but even I can appreciate a work of art. That Clooney fellow, for example.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea had caught his eye across the room at that very moment, just as his father said one of the worst things he’d ever said to Mycroft. Her eyebrow liften, and it had struck Mycroft as so funny in the moment that he had genuinely laughed. It had actually been the best Christmas Mycroft could remember at the time, and there had been few so enjoyable since.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magnussen aside, that particular year hadn’t been all bad. Mycroft would never admit it, would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> be able to say it to Sherlock, not past the permanent wall of pointless grief and rage that the memory brought up between them. But it had been nice enough, having people other than them in the house for Christmas. Mycroft had even thought at one moment that he ought to have invited Anthea again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, of course, Sherlock shot a man at point blank range in front of him hours after he had that thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Mycroft got out of the cab from the train station, he thought of Anthea and how he missed her, her humanizing influence on him that he had never appreciated enough. She deserved better than him, his influence on her amounting to what, he didn’t know. He had taught her coldness and ruthlessness, and had somehow managed not to make her hate him even as he asked too much of her over and over again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s mother came out of the house carrying a mug of coffee or tea, and cast a critical eye over him as he came up the walk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” she said, on a heavy sigh, “what have you done this time?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the end of the day, Mycroft was on the phone to Sherlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will have to be tomorrow,” he said, standing a good distance from the house with a cigarette in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock hummed, agreeing or not listening, Mycroft couldn’t tell over the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She broke crockery,” he said to fill the silence. “That was new for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock breathed in, sharp. “Yes, I realize that, but I promise it’s not as bad as it seems. She will get over it, Mycroft. She has to. She raised us. We are this way, in part, because of her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I lied to her and let her believe her child was dead.” Mycroft rolled the cigarette between his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Sherlock sighed. “No one is perfect. I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I won’t bring John. It would only upset him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will schedule the chopper for nine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s parents never mentioned wanting grandchildren until he informed them of his sexuality, assuming there would be little to no reaction, when he was nineteen years old. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother was unsurprised. His father… angry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had taken Mycroft aback, as he’d never seen his father angry about anything Mycroft had done in his entire life, and he certainly hadn’t braced himself for it to happen over something so beyond Mycroft’s control. He had never taken his father for a bigot. His parents were far from bohemian, but they didn’t concern themselves with what people did in private, and Uncle Rudy being who he was, homosexuality was old news in the Holmes world. Mycroft had had no reason to believe his </span>
  <em>
    <span>coming out, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so to speak, would be odd to them. He had rather assumed it would be a formality. He had been so sure they already knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found out later from his mother that his father had realized in that moment that they may never be grandparents. Mycroft had laughed at first, convinced she was joking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t have much family, Myc,” she had murmured, keeping her voice low despite the fact that no one could hear them so late at night in the kitchen. “And I think he blinded himself to this, because whether he realized it or not, he wanted a large family. Which, unfortunately, I could never give him. Three children was a compromise, and—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had broken off, looking away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft, when he would look back on the moment in the future, would feel guilt for thinking only of himself, and not of his second sibling who was at that time institutionalized and never spoken of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nineteen year old boys, even very bright ones, are selfish pricks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So this, of all things, is how I’ve let him down?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Myc, don’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculous.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>His mother turned back and slapped her hand down over his on the kitchen table as if he needed comfort. As if that gesture was comforting. “You haven’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>let him down. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He just needs to get his vision clear. I don’t mind saying that I was a bit forceful with him. I may have reminded him that he oughtn’t hold his breath for Sherlock, either, and that if I have to do this with him again in a few years, I will be very put out. The old fool has a few things to get straight - no pun intended - in his little mind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had sighed, and even decades later could remember the way a headache had started over his left eye in that moment and not budged for days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Mycroft dropped the Eurus bomb, his mother and father nattered on and on about Rosie Watson. And Mycroft understood why. He understood that they saw the writing on the wall, the inevitable truth that she was going to be as good as Sherlock’s in short order. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wished he could explain to them how Sherlock had looked at the little girl’s birthday party. He wished he could give his parents that like a gift that was his to give. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>See? One of us is living a life. I kept him alive and look - there it is. This is what you wanted. I didn’t ruin everything. Somehow. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was moments away from telling them that actually, he had also kept their dead daughter alive, that she was a serial murderer, and he was a disappointment and an absolute fool. So he kept his mouth shut about Sherlock and let his mother make him tea in the pot she would soon throw against a wall, and called himself every word for coward in every language he knew. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft could remember every helicopter ride to Sherrinford in stunning detail, from the first to the last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered arriving at Heathrow from Mumbai only to cross the airport to board a chopper so he could be brought directly to the island. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered Christmas Eves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered a birthday, early on. She was turning twenty-three. Why he had thought it a good idea he still didn’t know, and the next day Eurus garotted a man with string from the violin Mycroft had given her. He wasn’t able to trust her with a gift like that for another several years, and deep down he knew that there was always the chance that she would do it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft could remember flying there while exhausted, while hungry, while sick with the flu. Once, he even left the bed of a very highly recommended escort in order to make the flight. She’d read it on him like bright red writing the moment he appeared on the other side of her glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flight over with Sherlock and his stone-faced parents… that one would be his last, he decided. Really and truly, absolutely and definitely. His very, very last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And for the first time Mycroft could remember, he felt almost free. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anthea kept him behind in the office once his parents had gone down with Sherlock to see Eurus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was glad that he had told her to step outside before they all sat for the conversation with his parents to repeat itself. It was worse without crockery to break. It was worse having Sherlock there, appearing to take the blows meant for Mycroft from beyond their mother’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He did his best. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No, their mother was right. Mycroft was very, very limited. His best was not, by any stretch of the imagination, good enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Anthea was the one person on Earth who still saw Mycroft as human; he still didn’t want her to witness the way even he could be scraped raw by his parents’ disappointment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Mycroft knew that she could read it on him, the battering he’d taken.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look unwell,” she said gently. “Air sickness, sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft took in the placid lines of her face, the blankness of her eyes. “No,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flickered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sick of myself, Anthea,” he said, as easily as he might have said </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m thinking Pret for lunch. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“But I want you to know that you have handled this beautifully. And I’m more grateful to you than you could possibly imagine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea blinked, and her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “I would hug you, you bastard, if we weren’t standing under multiple cameras,” she said quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft felt his lips twitch not quite managing to get an actual smile off the ground. “Under no circumstances are you ever to hug me,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lifted her chin. “We’ll see about that.” She stepped toward the door. “Are you going down with them?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he said. “Actually, I… No.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” She narrowed her eyes in thought. “Then let’s go speak with Lourdes. Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft took a bracingly deep breath. “Yes. Let’s.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll meet you in the conference room,” she said, and left, giving him time to steady himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anthea - then going by the name Sophie Northam - hit on him the night they met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft might have laughed in the face of any other person at any other time. On that particular trip to Los Angeles, Mycroft was years out from the last flirtation he had bothered to notice, years out from the last time he’d bothered with sex or even noticing its importance to anyone else unless the act of noticing it was relevant to his ability to perform The Work. He was having an utterly boring week, and he utterly hated Americans, and here was this tiny little slip of a British thing with sharp eyes and an air of hunger about her, inexplicably </span>
  <em>
    <span>flirting </span>
  </em>
  <span>with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft let her, his interest piqued, giving himself time to suss her out. It took him two minutes to determine that she had no interest in him, had in fact clocked him as gay, and was trying to find a way to speak with him privately. His eyes cast around the room, and he noted the man with whom she had arrived at the party.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, Miss Northam,” he said. “How is your husband liking California?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lips quirked. “He loves it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yourself?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She recrossed her legs and sipped her martini. “It has its charms, but I am often homesick.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Mycroft fished his card out of his inside pocket and handed it to her between two fingers. “Well, I happen to be in town through the end of the week. We might have tea, and reminisce about home?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be lovely,” she murmured, taking the card. “I haven’t had a decent cuppa in years.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within the month, Mycroft had her extracted from what turned out to be a rather precarious situation - the husband was a traitorous double agent, and she would turn state’s evidence in exchange for clemency. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid I wasn’t given time to pack,” she said when he met her on the tarmac just north of London. “Or change.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tsked. “Well, we can certainly send you back to testify in something a bit more appropriate than your night things.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had looked down at her fleece pants and camisole covered by a jacket with F.B.I. emblazoned across the back in eye searing yellow, then back to him with a wry expression that happened mostly in her eyes. “D’you think so?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled at her properly for the first time. “Please,” he said. “The car is just this way, and my assistant is inside and prepared to take notes regarding anything you might need, including wardrobe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused, half under his umbrella and half not. Rain pattered loudly on the cheap nylon of her borrowed jacket. “Paid for by?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft tilted his chin. “By government funds,” he said. “Not by me. You owe me nothing, Mrs. Northam.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled without moving her lips at all. “That’s not my name.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Mycroft said, “as I said, my assistant waits in the car just over there, and we can obtain you one of those as well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In retrospect, Mycroft thought that must have been his life’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship </span>
  </em>
  <span>moment. And he hadn’t regretted it for a single second since. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>These days I seem to think a lot</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>About the things that I forgot to do</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And all the times I had the chance to.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span><em>-- Nico, "These Days"</em> </span>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had engaged in hobbies before. He hadn’t paid attention to any in years, many of them falling to the wayside or reaching a sense of completion that took the joy out of them, and others abandoned when his available time became too scarce to bother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was a child, he was in an antique shop with his father when he spotted a lone chess piece - a rook - in a basket of odds and ends that were on sale for 10p each. It was polished stone, pretty, and it looked hand carved. Deeper in the basket, there was another. A wooden pawn. Mycroft had held them in his palm and marveled. Where had they come from? Not the same set. These were two separate missing pieces, from two separate chess sets from who knew what eras. Why hadn’t they been thrown away? The hand carved one had an artisan’s touch, but the wooden one was just a chess piece. Who had lost them? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a mystery Mycroft would never solve, which rankled in the back of his seven year old mind. But he wanted to keep them. For one hot, thrilling second he had considered simply pocketing them, but it passed quickly. There was no need to do something like that, and if he happened to get caught he wouldn’t have the pieces </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> dessert that night. He had wandered over and tugged on his father’s sleeve, and just as Mycroft had known he would, his father bought the chess pieces for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Mycroft went away to University he had four complete chess sets made up of spare, lost parts. They were beautiful in their way, the boards manned by pieces that were all clearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be either white or black, but with subtle or not-so-subtle variations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he left for London he gave one to Sherlock, made up entirely of glass pieces, some crystal clear and others opaque white, some frosted or swirled with black as they were blown, or painted after. Some in perfect condition, others a little flawed. And he gave one to his father, a mishmash of colors on one side, and all pristine white on the other. That set still rested on a table in the spare room in the house in Sussex </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had no idea what Sherlock had done with his.The other two were lost to time or their parents’ attic. He never felt the need to rummage for spare chess pieces in market stalls and junk shops after he left home. It wasn’t a conscious decision. It simply stopped occurring to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That hadn’t been much of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hobby. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It hadn’t occupied much time in Mycroft’s day to day. He had simply played magpie for a while, collecting little things and hoarding them until he had enough to make something out of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He played piano as a child, and again for a brief period of time in his twenties. Andrew had once heard him play at a friend’s party on an out of tune upright and had a near-conniption over how attractive he found it. Mycroft tried to pick it up again after Andrew died, desperate for something to do. He practiced every day for months, wishing he’d bothered when Andrew was alive. Andrew would have liked to hear it. It would have been something sweet Mycroft could do for him, that category of acts being one with which Mycroft had always struggled. Whenever Mycroft managed it - sweetness, thoughtfulness, romanticism - he felt inordinately pleased with himself. The piano would have been perfect. Thoughtful. Andrew would have... Mycroft  should have had the piano brought over from Uncle Rudy’s house the day after that party. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that point there was little joy in piano, and Mycroft worried that persisting was making him maudlin. So he stopped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had no idea what to do with himself now. Almost fifty years old, and he wandered his house like a ghost, hands empty and purposeless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reading bored him, and he struggled to pay attention to the plot of films, even familiar ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would rather eat glass than write, the mere thought of what might come out of him now enough to make him shudder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Collecting wasn’t appealing once one had the means and access to find things at the snap of one’s fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposed he could resume his running schedule, but that was hardly a hobby. More a form of self-flagellation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What did people do with their time? Video games, art, gardening, pets, sport, interior decorating, vacationing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft suspected that if he suddenly developed a taste for travel for pleasure and hopped a plane to anywhere, the British government would place him on some sort of threat list, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lack of direction was embarrassing, and somehow exhausting. The several days Mycroft spent frozen in place after his trip to Sussex, unable to do anything, made him as tired as multiple timezone jumps and a treaty negotiation might have only months ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet he couldn’t sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anthea arrived with dinner again exactly one week after he had last seen her at Sherrinford. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t left this house in six days,” she said, annoyed, when he opened the door to let her in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where would you expect me to go?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She talked while she walked, navigating through his house like she owned the place, not bothering to turn around and level him with one of her flat glares. “To visit your brother? To the cinema? To a doctor?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need a doctor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you taking your blood pressure medication?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft snapped. “The prescription fills automatically and I am not due for a visit with my physician until next month, and none of this is any of your business whatsoever!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea dropped the bag of takeaway onto his kitchen worktop. “The stress you are under changes things. It would be a good idea to call and request an appointment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes but said nothing, holding his hands out instead for a flat box of sushi and a pair of paper-wrapped chopsticks. He sniffed. “This is from…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The place near Kensington, yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft decided not to shout at her for her presumption, considering it was his favorite sushi restaurant, and she had got him extra pickled ginger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seated at the kitchen table, she asked if he would like an update about work, and Mycroft fell on the offer like a starving man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She briefed him in a matter of minutes, delivering a series of bullet points in rapid order. “Questions?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How long before I’m asked not to return, since you have it all so well in hand?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“None come to mind at the moment,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lady Smallwood sends her well wishes,” Anthea said. “I think she would like it if you called. You could take her to dinner.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “She wants to sleep with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea snorted, covering her mouth and nose with one hand, her chopsticks dangling from her fingers. “Do you think so?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “I know so. She’s… a forceful woman.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea clicked her tongue. “A forceful woman with apparently faulty gaydar.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Gaydar,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft echoed, horrified. “What an unappealing word.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No other word works to explain the perceptual acuity to which I’m referring.” Anthea said crisply. “Unless you have one to suggest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorted and then committed himself to savoring his unagi. It really was the best he’d ever had outside of Japan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few moments of (finally) comfortable silence, Anthea sat back in her chair and sized him up. “You look… </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“How nice of you to say.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been sleeping?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little.” Mycroft stirred absently at his small pot of soy sauce. He would not tell Anthea that she was catching him on a rare day after a semi-decent night of sleep. “I’m bored out of my skull, and highly irritated with you for this coup.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is not a coup,” she said calmly. “I simply don’t want to see you drop dead from stress before you reach retirement age.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you would rather I retire early?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Anthea’s turn to roll her eyes. “Please, sir, just get the rest you need and possibly see a medical professional for what is clearly a severe case of traumatic stress, and then come back to the office. I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> your job. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> my job. You are being intentionally obtuse about this so that you can be angry with me instead of anyone or anything else. It’s tiresome.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could still fire you, you know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She picked at the seaweed wrap around a ball of onigiri. “Don’t. Please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. “Anthea… I want to at least return to the office half time. It isn’t a discussion. I’m going to speak to the relevant parties in order to notify them tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see no problem with that,” she replied, then raised her hands defensively at his disbelieving look. “I mean it! The fact that you’re proposing a slow return and not an immediate one all at once is comfort enough! It says to me that you aren’t outright suicidal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s mouth went dry. “Do you think I’ve been suicidal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea paused. “Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then… no. It was a poor choice of words. Insensitive. I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He set his chopsticks straight across his half-eaten container of sushi. “Quite alright.” He stood. “I need a glass of water. Can I get you anything?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea’s eyes were sharp on him, and Mycroft knew he had alarmed her. Something in his face must have done it. Something in the way he held his chopsticks or spoke or who knew. He had taught her too well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have the same,” she said, and didn’t express further concern for the rest of their meal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft, on the other hand, felt an odd curl of worry beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll return on Monday,” he said, his back to her. “Eight, sharp.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft lay in bed every night and while he eventually did manage to find sleep, it took a long time, sometimes hours. He tried, once, to recall the night he’d somehow managed to talk Greg Lestrade into sleeping with him. It only made him wince. The sex had been exceptional, but that didn’t matter. Mycroft lay in bed at night and internally raged at himself for doing what he had wanted - idly fantasized about, badly desired, yearned for, debated doing - to do for years on the night of one of the worst days - </span>
  <em>
    <span>the </span>
  </em>
  <span>worst day of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was colored by that, of course, and so now Mycroft couldn’t enjoy the memory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did he deserve to enjoy it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was young and always a bit on edge while pretending to be suited to field work, Mycroft often relied on the effects of a quick orgasm to get to sleep. And now he couldn’t muster up an erection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might be able to, with a partner. He was sure he could, actually, and he briefly toyed with the idea of finding one, though he knew he wouldn’t do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered if a brief period of promiscuity counted as a hobby. Sex could be a hobby. Why not?  Mycroft had made it one, once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In retrospect, he couldn’t say what led to it. He couldn’t pinpoint the first encounter that set him on a path to near-professional levels of casual sex. He had been careful and measured about it, never sleeping with anyone politically complicated, rarely seeing different people too close together. He enjoyed a couple of casual arrangements that he never let become too intimate. He availed himself of one night stands in dozens of countries. He paid for sex a handful of interesting times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It lasted from his later twenties to the early years of his thirties, and then Mycroft simply dropped the matter, much like he had the chess pieces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t consciously been working toward any sort of goal. His quest had been aimless. It may have been one of the few things he had done simply to please himself, actually, in his entire life. But one night he was considering the merits of a visiting Greek diplomat versus those of a quiet night in with his bathtub with a book and a glass of scotch. He chose the scotch. And that, it seemed, had been that.  Mycroft didn’t bother overly much about sex after that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much like a sudden propensity for travel, Mycroft thought that reviving a habit of casual sex now would do nothing but raise red flags. It was one thing to enjoy himself extravagantly in the late nineties when his career was on a skyrocket trajectory and any observers would be inclined to let him get away with it. Quite another to do it after a massive career failure and tragic personal... mishap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And certainly no one would overlook it now if he engaged the services of a professional. It would appear self destructive, and he held no illusions about the fact that he would be under a microscope for the foreseeable future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Move past it. Let the topic lie. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t late enough to be in bed, but he’d decided that lying down early would mean getting past the unpredictable window of struggle. The way he saw it, if he was going to lie in bed for hours, he may as well start at nine, and fall asleep by midnight, rather than wait for midnight and lie awake until three. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes and told himself to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he used to be capable of sleeping standing up, this shouldn’t be so difficult. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone vibrated against his night table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft groaned and reached for it, holding it over his face and squinting at it with a frown at the ready. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A text from D.I. Lestrade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft huffed. He would have to reject this man again - possibly for the last time. He should just give an unequivocal </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span> and be done with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He unlocked the mobile and clicked over to his messages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t another invitation. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:03pm): </b>
  <span>Hey, just wanted to check in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft stared at it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That was a change of pace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could have, should have, set it aside and closed his eyes again, but that felt wrong, somehow. Mycroft had never been the type to be outright rude to someone he had slept with. And he couldn’t imagine being rude to Greg Lestrade of all people. Not after everything the man had done for Sherlock. And now, for Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft winced, his thumb hovering over the screen. What to say in response? </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:13pm): </b>
  <span>Thank you, that’s very kind. I hope you are well. MH</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He’d considered typing ‘Things are fine’ or something to that effect but he felt as guilty lying to the man as he would feel being rude to him, apparently. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:16pm): </b>
  <span>Same as I ever was. Are you feeling alright? Sherlock mentioned you’re on vacation and stir crazy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:17pm): </b>
  <span>Sherlock is mistaken. I am on leave from work but will be returning on Monday. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:22pm): </b>
  <span>Really? I mean, I don’t want to sound like I’m telling you what to do, I almost didn’t send this. But really? Only been a couple months since everything, and even Sherlock and John are still passing on cases so they can focus on the repairs at home and get some rest. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:23pm): </b>
  <span>I would hardly call what I’ve been doing resting. I also am not currently rebuilding my exploded flat. I have no need to be at home. It’s better if I can perform some function in the day to day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was more honest than he meant to be, but Mycroft didn’t see the point in being reticent at this point, and the only way he could think to shut down this line of conversation would be to shut the entire thing down. And he wanted to keep texting Greg Lestrade.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:24pm): </b>
  <span>I think if it wasn’t for the baby Sherlock would be climbing the walls. You know he keeps a spreadsheet on her? Like a science project. It’s actually kind of adorable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled to himself, imagining that it probably was quite endearing. Sherlock didn’t need or wish to conduct data collection on Rosie Watson out of any scientific curiosity. Human development and behavior had been an early, and quickly discarded, interest. This was entirely a case of affection channeled in the only way Sherlock knew. Obsession, cataloging, and repeated analysis.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:26pm): </b>
  <span>He will never rest until he has surprised me right into an early grave. Sherlock the step-parent. Wonders will never cease.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:28pm): </b>
  <span>Hold your horses on that one. I don’t think he or the good doctor have made a move yet. God knows if they ever will. How many years does it take? Slow as molasses. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:31pm): </b>
  <span>Sherlock won’t move first. I can guarantee that much. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:31pm): </b>
  <span>Dunno, that might be the surprise that gives you the vapors. Guess we’ll see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t lost on Mycroft that he was lying in bed, gossiping about his brother’s love life. Or that he was doing it with a man he very badly wanted to touch again. He sighed. Subject change. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:35pm): </b>
  <span>Do you have any hobbies? </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:36pm): </b>
  <span>Hobbies? Yeah, I guess I do. I collect vinyl, and I cook. And I watch programs about cooking and yell at the TV when they fuck up. Does that last one count as a hobby?</span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:36pm): </b>
  <span>I will allow it. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:36pm): </b>
  <span>That makes it official then. Why do you ask? Do you have any?’</span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:37pm): </b>
  <span>Not of late, no. That’s why I asked, in fact. My assistant is haranguing me about doing something with myself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In truth, Anthea has barely pressed the matter. But Mycroft did think that if he chose something to do, supposedly for “fun”, it would go a long way toward calming her concerns in general.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:39pm): </b>
  <span>She’s a scary one. You had better do as she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:40pm): </b>
  <span>You don’t know the half of it, Detective Inspector. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:40pm): </b>
  <span>Greg. Have you ever tried cooking?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft rubbed at his chin with one thumb. Did Lestrade’s insistence on being called Greg even now mean that… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Best not fixate on that. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:41pm): </b>
  <span>No, I’m afraid I’m hopeless in the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL(9:42pm): </b>
  <span>You could try. Come for dinner. You can be my sous chef. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft let his mobile fall to his side, and he considered his bedroom ceiling. He had every crack and shadow memorized by now. He let his eyes go unfocused, trying to picture it - cooking with Greg Lestrade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes on a brief, fleeting memory. Andrew bumping him, hip to hip out of the way, laughing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You could burn water, you precious toff. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>MH(9:55pm): </b>
  <span>When would be convenient for you? </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have changed the chapter count by 2 additional chapters, because the final couple are getting a bit wordy and needed to be split! But the fic is almost entirely written now, so expect updates to come quickly. I have absolutely no self control ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, no, not me, I'm not ready for that final disappointment</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because I know just as well as I'm standing here talking to you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That when that final moment comes and I'm</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Breathing my last breath, I'll be saying to myself</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that all there is, is that all there is?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>—  Nancy Sinatra, “Is That All There Is?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft knew very early on what had happened to Victor Trevor. He saw it coming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. That wasn’t true. Not quite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew Eurus wanted to hurt the boy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the boy went </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing…</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was sure, at first, that they would find the poor creature with a broken leg, or possibly simply tied up somewhere. Or, his teenage brain frantically suggested, poisoned. Non-fatally. He conjured images of small, freckled Victor Trevor leaving the forest in a daze, swept into his mother’s arms while the searchers breathed sighs of relief. He imagined finding the boy himself, and carrying him to help and safety. He imagined telling Sherlock his friend was goin to be alright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no one found the boy. The boy did not show himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mycroft knew with grave certainty that Victor Trevor was dead. And he knew that Eurus had killed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft went to his parents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Myc,” his father said heavily. “I don’t see how that could be true. She’s only a little girl.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> only a little girl,” Mycroft protested hotly. “How can you say that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you suggest she did to the poor lad?” His mother scoffed with disbelief, blustering with denial. “She is a bare inch taller and probably still a stone lighter! She’s nine years old, Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She would have tricked him somehow,” Mycroft said steadily. “You know that she could. You know how intelligent and calculating she is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As are you and Sherlock,” his father said. “Should we also add the two of you to the suspect list?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither Sherlock or Mycroft had ever sliced into themselves. Neither Sherlock or Mycroft had ever tortured each other or their sister or an animal. Neither Sherlock or Mycroft had fantasized about deadly disasters the way that Eurus had since she was old enough to draw them on paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Mycroft said. “Please, at least talk to her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His parents refused, and Mycroft felt a rage and a helplessness that was nearly consuming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He noticed that Eurus had gone almost entirely silent, and that she had begun watching Sherlock, the way a cat stalks a sparrow. The way a snake pauses before a strike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was going to kill him. Mycroft knew it. Sherlock was next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t bother returning to his parents with it. He briefly considered anonymously tipping off Victor’s parents, or the police. But it was unlikely to lead anywhere. It wouldn’t keep Sherlock safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so, Eurus watched Sherlock and Mycroft watched Eurus. And he waited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was one of the first major errors of deduction that he could remember in his life. Correct: Sherlock is next. Incorrect: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Only</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sherlock is next. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft arrived at Lestrade’s flat at five on the dot the Saturday before he was set to return to work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was tempted to categorize the evening as a date. Dating wasn’t Mycroft’s area, admittedly, but if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>date - especially someone as exceedingly normal and relatively well-adjusted as Detective Inspector Lestrade - it would go a long way toward at least superficially bolstering Mycroft’s own normality and well-adjusted nature. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t think it was actually a date, however, and that was certainly smart on the part of Lestrade - and Mycroft found himself stuck on the surname tonight. He was sure it meant something, his categorization of the man a Lestrade and Lestrade only. He had absolutely no desire to examine it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade answered the door with a friendly grin and simply stepped back to let Mycroft through. They didn’t touch, which Mycroft supposed only made sense. They hadn’t touched since after Rosie Watson’s birthday, and that had been…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hadn’t touched. Their conversations hadn’t been what Mycroft would term ‘flirtatious’. This was not a date. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready to learn how to make spaghetti bolognese?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As I will ever be,” Mycroft replied lightly, shrugging out of his coat, switching the bottle of wine he’d brought along from hand to hand. He gave the coat over to Lestrade’s waiting hand. “I hope you know a good takeaway in the event I fail spectacularly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade laughed. “I’ll keep you from disaster. Promise.” He hung Mycroft’s coat in the hall closet, then held out his hand again. “Right, well, let’s see what ridiculously overpriced bottle you’ve brought, when Tesco’s finest would’ve done just as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This bottle is </span>
  <em>
    <span>moderately </span>
  </em>
  <span>priced,” Mycroft sniffed. It was a lie, and Lestrade knew it. Mycroft’s expensive and somewhat snobbish taste in alcohol was a long-running joke between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure it’ll go great with dinner, I’m not bothered.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade led the way into the kitchen, where Mycroft was surprised to see a great many ingredients already waiting for them on cutting boards, a very nice collection of knives and prep dishes and serving bowls available. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a little precious about it,” Lestrade said sheepishly. “Got all fixated on having the perfect kitchen after my divorce. For a while, this was the nicest room in the flat.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” Mycroft said. “You really did make a hobby of it, then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah. I almost did a Julie and Julia.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pardon?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade winked at him. “I’ll explain while we chop. Get your sleeves rolled up. I have an extra apron for you and everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, Mycroft was aproned and holding a glinting knife hesitantly over an onion, watching Lestrade slice the ends off his own onion one cutting board over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep your fingers out the way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft copied him and tried not to look too pleased at accomplishing the very impressive task of sticking a blade into a vegetable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just keep copying me for this bit,” Lestrade said. “So, this was something my mum taught me to make before I moved out. She fed it to us all the time. It’s cheap, and it has actual veg in it, and it’s good for using things up before they turn. Onions, carrots, celery. S’all you need, plus the tomato and seasonings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They halved their onions and peeled away the skin, discarding it in a large metal bowl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scraps bowl,” Greg said. “Do this instead of tossing it all in the trash. Keep your odds and ends in the freezer and you’ll make the best stock you ever had with it later. Just never let any raw meat touch any of this stuff. We’ll get the veg chopped and ready, all set up nice before we actually start cooking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mise en place,” Mycroft murmured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Lestrade said with satisfaction. “Okay, now you get to use the peeler. Don’t get too excited.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They peeled and chopped carrots, cleaned and diced ribs of celery. Lestrade opened two tins of tomatoes and gleefully warned Mycroft that this would get messy before chopping them, juice getting everywhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While they went about the preparation stage, Lestrade explained his reference from before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never did cook my way through any of Julia Child’s books,” he said. “But I did make every single technical from Bake Off last season.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bake Off?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Mycroft, you’re missing out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And by the end of Lestrade’s rhapsodic summary of the program, Mycroft was somewhat convinced that he was, in fact, missing out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s soothing,” Lestrade said. “I mean, it holds my attention, but I leave it on the DVR too, because at the end of a stressful day, it’ll put me right off to sleep, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Mycroft doubted it would work on his own insomnia, but he noted it in the back of his mind anyway. It was worth trying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you been sleeping?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was asked casually and with concern but not suspicion. Mycroft felt immediately guilty for looking sharply over when Lestrade said it. He regretted his own rush of suspicion, that Anthea had somehow predicted this, and had asked Lestrade to pry for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not very much,” Mycroft admitted. There was no benefit to lying, and if that flash of paranoia had been indicative of anything, it was that Mycroft wasn’t at his best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try it,” Lestrade suggested. “We can watch some while this simmers, if you like.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Mycroft paused with his knife poised over a carrot. “Alright.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mince,” Lestrade said, not acknowledging Mycroft’s awkwardness, and nodded to the refrigerator. “Top shelf.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was at that point that Mycroft’s function shifted to fetch and carry, bringing the bowls of chopped vegetables and garlic, the meat and spices from a rack by the refrigerator, while Lestrade heated a pot and drizzled oil into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now you put it all in.” Lestrade stepped away. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I </span>
  </em>
  <span>put it all in?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “You won’t burn it just by sticking it in the pot. Go on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was… ridiculous. This entire scene was absurd. That he had agreed to come for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>cooking lesson, </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the name of finding a hobby (he had no intention of doing any such thing), was complete nonsense. Mycroft had no business here. He had no business taking up Greg’s time when— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand covered Mycroft’s. “Where did you just go?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft blinked. The vegetables were still in the bowl in Mycroft’s hand, poised over the heating oil. “Nowhere,” he said automatically, and turned the chopped vegetables into the pot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You…” Greg cleared his throat. “You aren’t okay, are you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure what people expect me to say to them about this,” Mycroft said bluntly. “What do I do with these?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg handed him a wooden spoon. “Stir here and there. When you can just about see through the onions, add the mince.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft did as told and, though he could feel Greg’s eyes on the side of his face, did not turn to look at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People want you to be honest,” Greg said after a moment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I </span>
  </em>
  <span>want you to be honest with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you do not,” Mycroft said, slow and deliberate. “You really and truly don’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg sighed. “Are you going to do anything about this?” He moved away from Mycroft and the stove, going to the fridge. “The way you feel? Do you plan to try and work through it? You’ll start making mistakes, and you’ll only feel worse. Trust me, Mycroft, you don’t want to try to iceman your way through it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Greg returned to Mycroft’s side it was with two bottles of beer in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll do wine with dinner like civilized people, but…” Greg plunked the bottles down on the worktop and dug in a drawer until he unearthed a bottle opener. Once both were cracked, he handed one to Mycroft. “Stir with one hand, drink this with the other, and say something real to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft looked at him out of the corner of his eye and switched the wooden spoon to his left hand in order to drink with his right. The beer was cold and good, a high end microbrew. “You and your small batch I.P.A.’s.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a hefeweizen and you know it,” Greg replied. “Speak, Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. This was familiar, at least. Greg Lestrade had sat in a hospital waiting room with a terrified and anxious Mycroft, ten minutes after they met, and told Mycroft that his pretending he was only angry and inconvenienced by his brother’s overdose was </span>
  <em>
    <span>utter bollocks. </span>
  </em>
  <span>From day one, Mycroft couldn’t get away with anything with this perfectly normal, nice man, who should have run screaming from Sherlock long before he met Mycroft, and at that point </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> ought to have turned tail and got away from the both of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nice and normal, Mycroft supposed, didn’t mean a person couldn’t have an insane streak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see the point of anything,” Mycroft said. “The onions are translucent.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mince.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft dumped the plate of minced beef over the lightly sizzling vegetables. “And?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stir and break it up. Chop chop with the spoon.” Greg’s fingernails tapped absently on his beer bottle. “What do you mean you don’t see the point of anything?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s all I mean,” Mycroft said. “I have spent my entire life acting in pursuit of… what, exactly? Power? I wanted it so I could protect him and keep her locked away. I failed. The power means nothing, then. Influence? I’ve lost it. I will </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>fully recover it. So, should I decide that suddenly I’d like to shift focus and do actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it isn’t going to happen. And I’m too old to build it all again. Luckily, there is Anthea. Luckily, she can build it all again and use it herself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg drained his bottle and set it aside. “Let me get this straight—” He moved to Mycroft’s side in order to peer into the pot. “Here.” His sure hands reached first for salt and then for pepper, grinding each into the pot. “Don’t stop stirring.” He stomped over to the refrigerator, coming back with a carton of milk. “Move over.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re angry with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg shot him a glare. “At this point in the recipe, you add milk. Couple glugs, doesn't matter too much.” He poured around a cup of it into the pot. “Stir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft waited until he’d stormed back across the kitchen. “Why are you upset with me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hate being at home.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re standing here telling me you’re done. It’s all over. You’ll never recover, you regret your life’s work, it was all for the wrong reason and you failed at it, so nothing matters.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say that, exactly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you plan to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft? Curl up and die?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft said nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ.” Greg knocked at Mycroft with his hip. “You move over, you’re going to get all this shite in the food and it won’t taste right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft looked at him askance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg only glared. “It’s a thing. Don’t argue.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft watched in silence as Greg added this and that to the pot, and then a splash of wine from a cheap bottle already open by the stove. While they watched it simmer, Greg knocked back a swallow from the bottle, making a face as he set it down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg grimaced again. “Terrible.” He turned to face Mycroft, brows together and warm brown eyes full of worry. “Are you planning to do something to yourself?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mycroft replied, truthfully and evenly. “I’m not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg blew out a breath. “Okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can see why you might think that,” Mycroft said generously. “But no.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.” Mycroft stepped away from the stove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg caught him by the arm, then seemed to rethink, and slipped his grasp down to Mycroft’s hand. “Yes, you should have.” He tugged Mycroft in. “Come here, now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft couldn’t imagine what about this evening so far could make this man want to kiss him, but he did move closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg didn’t kiss him. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s middle, awkwardly struggling to force them under Mycroft’s stiff arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Work with me, Mycroft,” Greg mumbled. “Arms, around me, come on. It’s a hug.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s breath caught inexplicably in his chest. “Oh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft returned the embrace, because to do otherwise was unthinkable. Greg’s arms tightened around him immediately. Mycroft tightened his instinctively. He wanted desperately to tuck his face down into the warm crook of Greg’s neck, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you go,” Greg said, and patted a hand against Mycroft’s back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood in silence for a moment before Greg moved just slightly back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen to me,” he said. “You’ve had a nasty time. A terrible shock. And you’re dealing with a lot. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>terribly depressed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Do you hear me? Terribly. Depressed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg snorted. “And, as I’m sure you’ve been told, you need to take care of it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Greg sighed. “I know. Just. Please. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span> take care. And talk to me? Call your brother? He’s doing so well, Mycroft, and it’s because of you he’s survived this long. You should see it. You should enjoy it. You waited so long to be able to have a—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head and moved out of the hug. “Sherlock would be well within his rights to never speak to me again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg moved to the range. “This is ready for tomatoes,” he said. “I’m a shit cooking teacher, but basically we wanted the wine to cook off. Tomatoes, boil, then simmer forever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have been a very patient teacher,” Mycroft said, unsure what to do with himself while Greg dumped tomatoes into the pot of sauce. “I don’t know what I was thinking, imposing on you for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg shot him a flat look. “Let’s not,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get you on a date for a couple of weeks now. I wanted you here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the contents of the pot were behaving to Greg’s satisfaction, he moved away from the cooktop. “Wine now, or with dinner?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With dinner,” Mycroft said quickly, worried that if he drank any more on an empty stomach, he would only embarrass himself. Embarrass himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>further. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Greg nodded decisively. “You need Mary Berry. Let’s go.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the fire happened, they were all asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft woke to an acrid scent, and his mind, still half unconscious, convinced him that it was just his mother cooking breakfast. He nodded back off almost immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What felt like hours later, but was likely mere moments, a scream woke him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft tore out of bed and down the hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Smoke. Smoke everywhere. Hot. Where—  where is Mummy?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re alright.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s eyes blinked open. “Oh!” He moved to sit up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” Greg said gently. “You fell asleep. I told you that show would send you right off.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nightmare, yeah.” Greg’s hands patted gently at Mycroft, settling on him from where they had hovered in concern. “I was trying to wake you for dinner when I realized.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I say anything?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Greg said, soothing. “No, no, don’t worry. It was just your face. You were upset. That’s how I knew.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg moved away. “Please don’t leave,” he said. “Let me at least feed you first.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded, feeling himself flush as he sat up and realized he had been fully lying down on Greg’s sofa. How had he let himself fall asleep in someone else’s flat?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Greg told him in a soft voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mycroft looked up from his hands, he found only sincerity. “No,” Mycroft murmured. “It isn’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg winced. “I’m going to make you a plate. Don’t move.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No one believed that she was a danger,” Mycroft said, scraping the last of the bolognese sauce from his plate. “When we were children, that is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you really think that?” Greg had finished well before Mycroft, and had been patient and quiet, waiting for Mycroft to say something. “Or did they not </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to believe it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “I was very young.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Greg said meaningfully. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>were.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not anymore,” Mycroft murmured. “It can’t be excused in that way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What can’t be excused?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My inadequacy.” Mycroft set down his fork and slid his plate away, off to the side. “My… limited vision.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Greg spoke on a gusty exhale, leaning back in his chair. He gestured with a hand, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>what-can-you-do. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Mycroft, I hate to tell you this, but no one is infallible.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wouldn’t dignify that with a response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Greg said, clearly amused. “How about this - you weren’t the only one making decisions that didn’t work out. And maybe if you talked about it a little, you could see the forest for the trees.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at him. “I am talking about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, mate.” Greg lifted his hands as if in surrender. “I mean yeah, talk to me any time, but I’m saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>go to a professional. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Someone who doesn't know all the players. Someone who isn’t afraid of your assistant.” He paused, seeming to debate saying the words clearly gathering in his mouth. “Someone who hasn’t seen you naked?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft tried desperately not to flush. “About that, I—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare let me down gently tonight,” Greg said, voice suddenly more forceful than it had been all night, which was to say, only a little louder. “I couldn’t stand it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” Mycroft considered the other man’s face and, as had been the case so often lately, could not come to any conclusions about what he must think or want. “I wasn’t planning to do so.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Greg nodded decisively. “Look.” He leaned forward. “I meant it when I said you can talk to me. And I meant it when I told you to take care. And hopefully, sometime soon, when you’ve slept a full night or two, and start seeing the point in things again, you’d like to see the point of </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Of us, if you want.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The word dropped in Mycroft’s mind like a bomb. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Us. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” he said, unable to think of anything else. “I… make no promises.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg laughed, but it was pained. “Yeah, I know. I get it, Mycroft. But I’m… I’m an optimist.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head. “Well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Greg echoed. “I believe in Holmeses. Call me crazy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Oh, believe me, I do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Greg hugged him again at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We didn’t open the wine,” he mumbled somewhere in the vicinity of Mycroft’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep it,” Mycroft said, tentatively hugging back. It was so… </span>
  <em>
    <span>odd.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He hadn’t hugged anyone since… When? Since when? He couldn’t unearth an answer from his memories. “If you’ll allow me, if I haven’t ruined my chances of a repeat visit, I’ll bring more and we can drink it together?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cooking lesson number two?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mycroft said firmly. “No, just. Not for a cooking lesson.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just to see you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> is what he should have said. Is what any normal person would say to a person who had been as kind to them as Greg had been, who had touched them the way Greg had touched Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Greg said, seeming to understand, somehow, the meaning. “Please. Come over anytime. Call me anytime, I’ll come to you. Don’t be alone.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft returned to work on Monday, and refused to enter his offices tentatively. He strode in as if those few weeks’ sabbatical had never happened, and as if he planned to resume the same level of activity he had maintained before, which was to say, not much </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual </span>
  </em>
  <span>movement, but a rather chained-to-the-desk existence which found him in a car or in the air if not in a conference or on a call or in the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea was perfectly genial and professional, perhaps choosing to give him a break at last, or simply realizing that he was more likely to insist, out of spite, that actually a full time return would be just fine after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft made it all the way to lunch without a single bump to get over. Anthea’s updates, however few and far between, had been thorough, and a mid-morning discussion with Lady Smallwood had gone far toward filling in any gaps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The usual?” Anthea checked, as she normally did, an hour before they would normally break to eat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Mycroft murmured, not bothering to look up from the latest report out of Beirut. “Extra—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lemon slices, I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And at the usual time, she rapped twice on his door with two knuckles before opening it just far enough to hold out a carton of their Monday tradition: steaming fish and chips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come with me, if you want to live,” she intoned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft blinked. “What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea knocked the door open the rest of the way with her foot. “Nevermind,” she said in exasperation. “Don’t you ever watch a film made after 1970?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why bother?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He left the office and followed her to the small canteen this set of offices shared amongst themselves. He and Anthea always ate later than the others, which was intentional. That day was no different, and they were left entirely on their own for the duration of their meal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” she said, just as Mycroft finished squeezing what she had told him many times by now was a rather extravagant number of lemon wedges over his fish. “Which days?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and a half Friday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Full days otherwise?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And on Tuesdays? Signed up for salsa dancing, have we?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will simply work from home when possible.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea sighed. “Sir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Madam,” he replied, just enough damning snap in his voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Leave it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well,” she said, annoyed, and stabbed a chip with a fork in order to save her fingers from grease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the end of the meal, she decided to tolerate him again, and they passed a pleasant twenty minutes trading coded royal gossip. Anthea cleared their cartons like always, and Mycroft made them each a cup of tea, like always. Normally, they would part ways and meet again in the office by the quarter hour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today, Anthea paused and removed an envelope from her handbag. “This was delivered for you just as I returned with our lunch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” She handed it over. “By a young woman from your brother’s… network? I believe he calls it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes and took it. “He certainly is dramatic, is he not?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Family trait,” Anthea said, breezing out of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft set down his tea and opened the envelope, which was unsealed and only had the flap tucked inside itself. All that was inside was a folded sheet of paper ripped messily from a yellow legal pad. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was surprised, </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly </span>
  </em>
  <span>surprised, to see John Watson’s doctor scrawl, and not his brother’s cramped print. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Mycroft - </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Rosie didn’t have the chance to thank you for the set of books from her birthday. She requests that you stop by sometime and read one to her.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>While I know you already pilfered this number, I am copying it below. Call it, or don’t. Maybe you can’t. But consider this my last ditch attempt at being helpful. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Thank you for setting us up while we wait for repairs. We’re very comfortable. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>--JW</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Under John’s initials was a phone number and the name Ella Thompson. His therapist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was again surprised to find that he wasn’t annoyed. He didn’t feel… bothered. Or examined. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt, oddly, like Greg Lestrade’s ‘just checking in’ text. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt like care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that, Mycroft thought, was interesting. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just want to thank you all for your kind comments as I post. This story has been interesting and at times difficult to write, and I'm just pleased beyond what I can say that it's coming across in a way that many of you have said is relatable and realistic. I love you guys.</p><p>See notes at the end for a quick content warning related to an incident of non-graphic described violence against a young Sherlock in a flashback about Eurus.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>My eyes are closed now</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Count the stars inside your mind</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Count the breaths, count heartbeats</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Count the sounds of life</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>—  Regina Spektor, “The Light”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft met Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade (D.O.B. 5.12.69, Southend-on-Sea, m. Susan Lestrade [nee Mellor] 1995, current resident Brixton Hill, London) in the early morning hours against the backdrop of an A&amp;E waiting room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Sherlock overdosed for the second time, Mycroft was flying back to London from a so-called peace summit. He had been looking forward to nothing more than the day and a half of sleep he had built into his schedule in order to bypass the jetlag. When he turned his mobile back on in the car from Heathrow, he saw missed calls from a slew of numbers, and several voicemails. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey. Hi. This is D.S. Lestrade. Greg Lestrade.” A breath, trying to get panic under control. “You don’t know me, but I know your brother. He’s. Sherlock. Sherlock overdosed. I’m at St. Bart’s with him. Well. Not. Not with him, I’m in the waiting room. He’s—  Please call me back.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t bother. He directed his driver to the hospital, and requested that his assistant send a detailed file on the police officer his brother had been following for the last several weeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time the car dropped him at St. Bart’s, Mycroft had already spoken to the attending physician and two rehabilitation centres. And he had read the basics of Gregory Lestrade’s life, and seen his photo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t occur to him to note the man’s attractiveness that night. Not from the slightly pixelated photo, and not from his red-eyed appearance when he approached Mycroft in the lobby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would happen later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mycroft was immediately struck by how much this person cared whether Sherlock lived or died. He was fascinated, as they sat there waiting for further news, at how concerned Lestrade was about whether or not this incident would affect Sherlock’s mind. He was heartened by the anger he could read there. The way Lestrade said, “How could he just—” and Mycroft could hear the unspoken end of the sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How could he just throw it all away? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn't mean to,” Mycroft said stiffly. “I don’t think he is suicidal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a long silence, in which Mycroft stared into space, and Lestrade stared at his profile, waiting for more. Mycroft, jetlagged, furious, and terrified, had nothing more to give. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well if he isn’t suicidal,” Lestrade ventured after several minutes, “what is he?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. “A burden.” He winced guiltily. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“My </span>
  </em>
  <span>burden. My responsibility. This is my fault; I should have seen this coming and planned accordingly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw Lestrade’s eyes narrow, but the doctor was walking toward them, so he stood and left the waiting room with her, leaving Sherlock’s detective friend behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t expected the man to </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But when Mycroft emerged almost an hour later, having arranged for Sherlock’s transfer to first a private hospital and then to a rehabilitation program outside of Edinburgh, D.S. Lestrade was still waiting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s true,” he said to Mycroft with no segue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>is true?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your brother is not your burden,” the man said, confident in his correctness. “This wasn’t your fault. And you’re more upset about this than you let on. You forget I’ve known him for a while. I’ve seen how he operates. And I’m sure you can’t be all that different. You’re both terrible liars.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can assure you,” Mycroft drawled. “I am a professional liar.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade laughed. “Right. Well. Let’s go. We’re getting a pint” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mycroft had gone. He had let it happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he kept letting it happen, for years. He couldn’t seem to say no to the only person - other than himself - who seemed to care about Sherlock. And then after John Watson appeared and Lestrade found himself very much relegated to a supporting role, Mycroft had said, “Now you know how it feels,” and it had been his turn to invite Greg for a drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it had gone, and so it goes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you feel that you have numbed yourself to traumatic experiences?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft tore his gaze away from the rain-grey scenery outside the window. “No,” he said, annoyed. “I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>that I have numbed myself. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that I have. Doesn't everyone?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The therapist - not Ella Thompson, who had no clearance whatsoever, let alone one that would make her a viable option for Mycroft - smiled and tipped her head to one side. “Some people do, yes. Alright, let us be specigic. Do you do it intentionally?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mycroft said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>annoyed. “Of course I don’t. It’s a defense mechanism utilized by almost every human being that lives or has ever lived.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she murmured. “But you seem to think that you can control your every response and emotion, so…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t what I think.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what do you think?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft itched for a cigarette. “Do you mind if I smoke?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is no smoking in this building.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft bit back a smile and shook his head. “Madam, I can smoke in any building I please. I’m asking </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>do you mind if I smoke?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I mind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft touched his fingers to his temple and the incipient ache there. “Very well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft.” She leaned forward in her seat. “What has been on your mind today? Not this week, not since the incident with your sister. Not for the last five or ten years. Just today. What weighed on you the most before you walked into my office?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He considered it, curling his fingers against his mouth and casting his eye out the window again. “I don’t drive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused, her pen tapping silently against the pad of paper resting on her knee. “Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I never obtained a license.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It bothers you that you didn’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not particularly, no.” Mycroft blinked out into the gloomy weather. “I almost did. I inherited a car. But.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You changed your mind?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I lost the car.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waited for him to continue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft drew a deep breath. “The man I lived with at the time took it up to Manchester to visit his mother. He was involved in a crash. And he was killed. So, I assume, was the car.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft was relieved that she reacted with such neutrality. He felt oddly like he might absolutely lose all sense if she said anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>sympathetic, </span>
  </em>
  <span>when no one ever had before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That must have been very, very difficult,” she said. “How long ago did this happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Mycroft sighed, transforming it into a more concentrated exhalation through the circle of his lips. “Quarter of a century.” He laughed a little. “A long, long time ago.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These things often feel very immediate for as long as that, if not longer. And sometimes new events trigger memories or feelings that bring the past events to the fore, when we may have thought they were entirely in the rearview, so to speak.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think of this man often?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mycroft replied. “Not until recently. I don’t know why I suddenly...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you found yourself missing him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head, then stopped himself. He actually stopped to think about it. “No,” he decided. “I miss him in the abstract. I am not particularly… connected to that part of my life,” he said. “Not anymore. I find myself missing… Mycroft Holmes at twenty-three, perhaps.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is a very common feeling.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” She was smiling when he tipped his face back to look at her. “Especially when we think of our younger selves as happier than we are now. Do you think you were happier, then?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, undoubtedly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. “Who isn’t happier when they are young, compared to when they are old?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckled. “My, my. If you’re old, what am I?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft huffed. “You? Madam, from what I hear you are in fact a class unto yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s true. Something we have in common.” She shifted in her seat. “You aren’t what one would consider old, Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure that you do. But I also think you know full well that actually, for many, happiness does come with age. With knowledge and independence. With money and security.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had all of those things when I was young,” Mycroft said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock was screaming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More specifically, when Mycroft snapped awake he thought: </span>
  <em>
    <span>The baby is crying again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock wasn’t really a baby. He recently turned two. But he was still prone to excessive crying, which for Mycroft was, to say the least, a trial. He would leave for boarding school next year, probably, though Mummy had started hemming and hawing about it. He hoped that if she decided to keep him at home, his little brother would at least learn to sleep through the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But tonight the thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>The baby is crying, </span>
  </em>
  <span>quickly changed as the tone and cadence of his brother’s sobs registered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock wasn’t crying, he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>screaming. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As Mycroft made his way out of his room, wanting to run but strangely unable to do so - worried that he would appear hysterical, should he run into his mother in the hall, or utterly terrified of what he would see if her hurried, or both - Mycroft’s assessment of the sound his brother was making shifted quickly from </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>bloodcurdling</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He opened his own bedroom door in time to see Eurus pass, her tiny form dwarfed by her nightgown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eurus?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t speak. She simply passed Mycroft’s doorway, and made her silent way to her own room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was holding something in her hand. Something with a vague metallic sparkle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother’s pincushion? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft blinked hard, convinced the sleep in his eyes was affecting his vision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned, and saw his mother disappearing into the nursery. When he turned back around, his sister was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft stumbled down the hall, still trying to understand what he had just seen. He could hear his mother shushing and soothing Sherlock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock, who was still screaming. And he wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t wet. Mycroft knew those cries very well. The sounds he made were unlike any Mycroft had ever heard him make. When he peeked, frightened, into the nursery, he saw that his brother was thrashing in Mummy’s arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t—” She nearly dropped him. “Darling, what on </span>
  <em>
    <span>earth—” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft moved on autopilot, his eyes cataloging as he did, his mind jolting the rest of the way out of sleep to process what he saw. He caught one of his brother’s feet, covered by his light blue pajamas, and stared at the line of red specks along the sole. “Mummy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft, now is really not the time to—” She gasped. “What in god’s name is—  Get the snaps, the snaps, </span>
  <em>
    <span>get the snaps!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft very nearly started shouting back at her that he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying, couldn’t she </span>
  </em>
  <span>see</span>
  <em>
    <span> that? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It took her arms wrapped vice-like around Sherlock and Mycroft’s shaking fingers simply yanking the pajamas open, and then both of them wrestling the baby’s legs out of the footed sleeper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Mycroft murmured, very nearly in tears. He covered Sherlock’s red foot with his palm, as if he could fix it that way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft did, Sherlock’s wet face tucked hot against his neck, and watched his mother tear the cot apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not in the bed.” Mycroft said, breathless. “Mummy, it’s not in the bed! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mummy!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>where is it?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft swallowed back a sick feeling. “Eurus. The pincushion from your sewing box. She—  I saw her with it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence, interrupted only by Sherlock’s pathetic snuffles, fell heavy in the nursery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell lies, Mycroft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. “I wouldn’t tell lies, Mummy. Look in your sewing box.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She fled the room with nothing more than a sharp exhale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sank down in the old rocking chair by the window. Sherlock’s tiny pressure-point hands hurt Mycroft’s collarbone as he shoved himself back to gaze wetly up from Mycroft’s lap. His pajamas hung open, and his hair was an absolute nest, his face streaked with snot and tears. He was so big now. Mycroft couldn’t remember Eurus as an infant, really. He remembered her clearly at the age Sherlock was now, and he could remember the day he met Sherlock, when Mummy returned home from hospital. Mycroft decided that this must mean his own memory began around the age of five. Disappointing; Uncle Rudy said that Mummy could remember all the way back to her third year. Mycroft would need to work on this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smacked one sticky palm to Mycroft’s cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, he hoped Sherlock was similarly deficient. What if he was smarter than Mycroft, the way Mycroft worried Eurus might be? What if Sherlock remembered </span>
  <em>
    <span>this? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow, My.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Mycroft sighed. He looked at the sole of one small foot. The punctures were barely visible. He stood to retrieve a handful of wet wipe and a new sleep suit. “Here,” he murmured. “Let’s clean you up and change, alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his mother reappeared later, Sherlock was back in his cot, playing happily with his stuffed rabbits, and Mycroft was on the floor with his face pressed to the bars, his arms pushed through them to hold on to whatever bits of his brother he could reach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for staying with your brother, darling,” she whispered. “And I’m sorry that I said you were telling a fib.” She knelt beside him, one of her hands gentle on his back. “Let’s get you back to bed, hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head, his fingers tightening a little around Sherlock’s ankle. Sherlock squawked and kicked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you can’t sleep on the floor here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can,” Mycroft insisted. “May I please have a pillow?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Myc, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He could only shake his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you think?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. “I think I don’t understand the purpose of rehashing ancient history. I am well aware of the events that took place, and of how I felt before, during, after. This is theater, at this point. This… this </span>
  <em>
    <span>process.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to amend a question I asked you at our last session.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft raised both eyebrows and waited </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked if you numb yourself to traumatic experiences,” said the therapist. “But I’d like to rephrase. Do you think that you perhaps numb yourself to </span>
  <em>
    <span>most</span>
  </em>
  <span> experiences, good or bad?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Mycroft were a different sort of person he might think or say one of the following phrases: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, shit; Fuck me; How absolutely dare you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He skittered away from the host of internal reactions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft frowned. “In general? As in, have I always?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you feel you always have.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t. I haven’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was probably true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “Alright. Have you done so recently?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Undoubtedly,” he said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had kissed Greg Lestrade in the car after Rosie Watson’s birthday party. At the time, he didn’t examine the why, the how, or even the </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> of it. He barely registered the sensations of it. Certainly did not dwell on the emotional or intellectual reasoning behind it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After several weeks back at work part-time, two weeks and four sessions into a tenuous relationship with a government-hired therapist with a clearance that might be higher than his, Mycroft thought perhaps he should have. He lay in bed and dredged for the memory. Every last scrap of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a good kiss, and so had the others been, though Mycroft wasn’t focusing on those now. The one in the car - only that one, for now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Impulsive, and a little embarrassing after the fact - though for whatever reason, Lestrade had persisted in speaking to him after, so possibly not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> embarrassing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft could recall the scent of Lestrade’s cologne. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really should call him Greg, even in his mind, if he was going to think about the man’s tongue in his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg had kissed him back instantly. His hands on Mycroft’s face had been warm and dry. It was a relief to know that those facts weren’t lost in the numb swirl of dissociation. Mycroft could bring up small details - an indrawn breath here, a pause there, a brush of mouths before pressing together again - that he hadn’t been conscious of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had originally felt something like grief when he looked back on the blur of it, the lack of feeling he had done in the moment. It had distressed him to realize that he remembered the kiss, and indeed the sex that came weeks before it, with the same detachment he had remembered certain horrific aspects of the incident at Sherrinford. He wondered if anything would ever be separate from those events ever again. The ill feeling about it had swirled with his guilt at having used Greg to quiet his jumbled mind. Twice, possibly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least now he knew that it wasn’t a permanent condition, just as surely as he knew he did </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> Greg. He wasn’t an entirely selfish person - he hadn’t done what he did with someone who was simply convenient. And he had more or less been asked with everything short of an engraved invitation to come back for more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wondered, as he finally drifted off into blessed sleep, if being asked meant he</span>
  <em>
    <span> could.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A word I want to discuss with you today is </span>
  <em>
    <span>disappointment.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded. “Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not surprised, naturally.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled. “No, not surprised. Certainly that has been a common theme in our discussions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Exactly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would you like me to say about it? How I </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>about being disappointed? Whether I </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>disappointed now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorted and favored him with an unimpressed look. “No. I’d like to ask you whether you think that all or most people are, in the end, disappointing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shrugged. “Including myself?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not including yourself, I’m referring to other people and how they relate to you. People who have let you down.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t blame people for letting me down much of the time,” Mycroft replied. “It isn’t the fault of perfectly ordinary human beings that I have predicted—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not referring to that.” She twiddled her pen between the knuckles of her left hand. “I’m referring to events which you call disappointments that have caught you off guard and in many cases caused you harm. But I think you know that, and you simply don’t wish to discuss this topic. Which, of course, is fine. We can move on to something else, if you—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not attempting to avoid the topic,” Mycroft snapped, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she knew good and well that he found it infuriating when she assumed she knew his motives. “I truly do believe that the bulk of my disappointment in other people is rooted in their lack of insight and intelligence, which is of course no fault of theirs.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you believe your parents are not at fault, for disappointing you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft blinked. “My parents didn’t—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You feel that they performed their duties as parents to your satisfaction?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Madam, what does my satisfaction have to do with it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would say it has quite a lot to do with it. If you feel that your parents did their best for you, perhaps one can extrapolate that your perception of yourself as having let them down is because of that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know that my parents did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>do their best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What words would you use to characterize their parenting style?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shrugged. “It was the seventies. Children were expected to mind themselves.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You came from a rather well-situated family. Did most children in your socioeconomic bracket, so to speak, mind themselves and their young siblings? Would an eight year old have been expected to be responsible for a two year old and an infant?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t exactly their nursemaid.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but were you their primary minder?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… at times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? You have mentioned your parents hiring nannies for your care.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eurus and Sherlock were… spirited children. My parents found it difficult to keep nannies.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it logically follow that a child between the ages of - what was it? Eight and fifteen?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I left home for University between my sixteenth and seventeenth birthdays.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, does it logically follow that until you attended University, you were responsible for the well-being of your siblings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shifted in his seat. “I wouldn’t say it was all that simple. If anything, I assumed actual responsibility for them when we were all considered adults.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that any better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was my choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A choice you regret?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft might have become defensive over such a question, weeks ago. But he’d grown accustomed to the therapist’s ways, and after only a few sessions had stopped responding to her matter-of-fact prying with irritation. It had amused him when he realized it had been annoying him. He had seen plenty of people on the other end of that bland look when he was the one giving it. He had watched with great pleasure, actually, as the tide of negotiations turned his way as his opponent grew agitated by Mycroft’s placidity. It had taken some work to stop seeing these sessions as oppositional interactions, but he had done it. She had clearly wanted to praise him for that, but had proven herself very perceptive by refraining. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave the question some thought, setting aside his immediate answer for a moment while he examined whether it was in fact true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t regret it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good.” She smiled, ever so slightly, and a touch gently. “If you could name one reason that you don’t regret it. What would it be?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I kept my brother alive.” Mycroft gestured with his hand: </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s all there is. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“That was all I ever wanted to do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now that you feel Sherlock is stable, and capable of keeping himself alive, what do you want to do?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t have the slightest idea what to say to that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He texted Greg first this time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>MH[11:12am]: </b>
  <span>Cooking is perhaps not going to become a special interest of mine, but I seem to be at a loss. MH</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL[11:24am]: </b>
  <span>Well you like films. You run. What else?</span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH[11:27am]: </b>
  <span>I collected mismatched chess pieces for an eleven year period of my childhood. MH</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL[11:29am]: </b>
  <span>Of course you did. That’s precious!</span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH[11:30am]: </b>
  <span>It was odd, and for a time it was bordering on obsessive. But it wasn’t exactly engaging, as activities go. MH</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL[11:32am] </b>
  <span>You need something you can spend time on. A little time every day. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH[11:34am]: </b>
  <span>Precisely. MH</span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL[11:35am]: </b>
  <span>Gardening?</span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH[11:36am]: </b>
  <span>I don’t even keep office plants. MH. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL[11:40am]: </b>
  <span>Baking? It’s like cooking, but slower. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>MH[11:45am]: </b>
  <span>Perhaps we could call watching Paul Hollywood for hours on end a hobby? </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL[11:53am]: </b>
  <span>Should I be jealous of your crush on Paul Hollywood????</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled down at his mobile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>MH[11:54am]: </b>
  <span>No. If anything you should take it as an indication that I have a certain type. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>GL[11:55am]: </b>
  <span>Hmmmmm interesting</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes, it certainly was. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The section beginning with "The baby was crying" describes an incident in which Eurus provoked a toddler Sherlock into crying by poking him with straight pins.</p><p>Today is a DOUBLE UPDATE! Click click, next chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Double update today! Woohoo!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Turn the light out, say goodnight </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No thinking for a little while </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Let's not try to figure out everything at once </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It's hard to keep track of you falling through the sky </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- The National, “Fake Empire” </em>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Do you still experience suicidal ideation?” </p><p>Mycroft wrinkled his nose. </p><p>“I am aware that you do not like to categorize your thoughts immediately following your sister’s actions in this way.” The therapist leaned her cheek on her propped-up fist. “Humor me.” </p><p>“I don’t want to die.” </p><p>She nodded. “Good. Do you feel indifferent to your death?” </p><p>Mycroft huffed. “You ask that as if indifference to one’s death means indifference to one’s life.” </p><p>“Well?” </p><p>Mycroft laughed. “I am not indifferent to my life.” </p><p>“Good!” She clapped her hands together and leaned over them. “What’s your purpose, then?” </p><p>Mycroft froze. </p><p>“Ah, there it is.” She sat back again. “You mentioned last week that you felt your purpose had been fulfilled.” </p><p>“I still believe it to be true.” </p><p>“If that’s the case, what purpose did you fulfill? Keeping Sherlock safe?” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“What else?” </p><p>Mycroft sighed. “I upheld the legacy my uncle left me. I served my country, and I trained up a successor.” </p><p>The therapist winced. “Christ, don’t remind me. If I had balls that woman would make them shrivel.” </p><p>Mycroft laughed again. “You’re very amusing today.” </p><p>“Ah, I have my moments.” She clicked her pen. “So that’s all? That’s it? Nothing else you want to accomplish before shuffling off this mortal coil?” </p><p>Mycroft could only stare at her. </p><p>“Right,” she said. “Let’s think on that, yes?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><b>MH[9:32pm]: </b>Perhaps I’ll become a painter. </p><p><b>GL[9:35pm]: </b>Oh, interesting. I volunteer as your first subject :)</p><p><b>MH[9:38pm]: </b>Is this flirtation? </p><p><b>GL[9:42pm]: </b>What do you think? Why painting? </p><p><b>MH[9:45pm]: </b>I’d like to spend significant portions of my time reproducing the image of Paul Hollywood. I believe I will start with watercolors. </p><p><b>GL[9:46pm]: </b>What better reason to pick up a new skill?</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“She’s quite tall, isn’t she?” </p><p>John scoffed. “Thanks for that, mate.” </p><p>Mycroft was startled. “Oh!” He felt himself flush. “I wasn’t attempting to make a backhanded comment about your stature, Dr Watson, I assure you.” </p><p>From the kitchen, Sherlock snorted. </p><p>They were back in 221B. It was unsettling, in Mycroft’s opinion, that John and Sherlock had chosen to redecorate nearly identically to the flat pre-explosion. But then, he assumed it gave them a sense of comfort. </p><p>“Please, call me John. Next thing you know she’ll pick it up from you and call me Doctor.”</p><p>Mycroft followed John’s gaze to the little girl toddling around the edges of the desk, tugging at dangling cords and knocking down papers. </p><p>“None of it’s connected to anything,” John said. “They’re decoy wires.” </p><p>Mycroft chuckled. “Clever of you.” </p><p>“Clever of <em> me,” </em> Sherlock grumbled, sweeping past in half-suit, half-dressing gown to scoop Rosie away from the desk. “And it’s <em> only </em>to give one of us time to intervene. No desk, Rosie.” </p><p>She screeched and reached over Sherlock’s shoulder with both hands, furious to have been thwarted. </p><p>Sherlock shot John a pointed look. </p><p>John raised both hands. “You’re the one who refuses to clean up after yourself. You’re making fake messes because you think you can train her to leave them be, which is <em> insane. You </em> tell her ‘no’ every five seconds.” He stood from his chair with a slap to his knees. “Tea? Anyone?” </p><p>Sherlock watched him go, puzzled. </p><p>“He’s giving us a moment,” Mycroft told him, emphasizing the final word. </p><p>With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock shambled down into the chair opposite Mycroft - John’s, since Mycroft had claimed Sherlock’s as he usually liked to do, just for fun - and set Rosie on the floor at his feet. She stood immediately, using Sherlock’s knees to balance. </p><p>“John is so tedious about these things.”</p><p>“John is polite.” </p><p>“Rosie <em> is </em>tall for her age. And a bit advanced, as a matter of fact,” Sherlock said, picking up Mycroft’s conversation with John. “She began to walk at ten months, which is a bit early.” </p><p>Mycroft found himself smiling. “She’s very impressive.”</p><p>“She is,” Sherlock snapped, eyes sharp. </p><p>“Sherlock, I was being sincere.” </p><p>A blink. “Oh.” </p><p>“Yes, <em> oh.”  </em></p><p>Rosie took this as her cue to grow bored of Sherlock’s knees and toddle over to examine Mycroft’s. </p><p>Mycroft stiffened. “Ah. Hello.”</p><p>Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his thighs and fingers steepled in front of his lips. “Don’t be nervous, brother, she doesn't bite. Much. Lately. Today.” </p><p>Mycroft chuckled and reached a hand out to meet Rosie’s outstretched one. It was a bit sticky, but mostly inoffensive as the hands of children went. She closed her fingers around one of Mycroft’s in a tight grip, then reached her other hand out. </p><p>“She wants you to pick her up,” Sherlock said. Then, when Mycroft hesitated, “You carried me around like a rag doll for the first three years of my life, Mycroft, just pick up the baby.” </p><p>Resisting the urge to say <em> fine </em>and roll his eyes, Mycroft picked up the baby. Her hands went immediately to his cheeks, her blue eyes serious on his. </p><p>“Hello,” Mycroft murmured. “Do you know, I think you must look like your mother.” </p><p>“She does,” John said quietly from the kitchen doorway. “She seems to like you. Consider yourself lucky. Lately she’s been a bit weird with people other than us and Mrs Hudson.” </p><p><em> Us. </em>There that was again.</p><p>“Babies like Mycroft,” Sherlock said confidently, as if there was data to support such a claim. </p><p>Mycroft settled Rosie onto his lap and was surprised when his knee took up an automatic bounce. “Anyway,” he said, refusing to show embarrassment at this development.</p><p>“Anyway,” John echoed, wiping at a smile. “Tea in two minutes.” </p><p>After he ducked back into the kitchen, Sherlock said, “Mummy told me that you were the only person who could keep me happy when I was Rosie’s age.” </p><p>“Have you seen her lately? Mummy, I mean.” </p><p>“Just the once. She insisted on stopping by.” </p><p>“She made the trip to London specifically to see you, you mean.” </p><p>“Mm.” </p><p>Rosie twisted to grab for Mycroft’s tie. Not wanting to be strangled, he presented her with his pocket square instead, tickling her nose with it before giving it over to her eager hands. </p><p>“It’s true,” Mycroft said, keeping his eyes on the baby in his lap, and not on the one across from him. “You were a bit of a crier, and I think you could sense her tension. She was tired with three of us to deal with, and I think a needy baby was more than she bargained for so soon after the last one. I was rather less pressed for time and energy, being that I was ten years old, and therefore more appealing to you.” </p><p>“That’s nice,” Sherlock murmured. “But also, Mycroft… you were a good brother.” </p><p>Mycroft pretended that didn’t take the air out of him. “Thank you,” he said, very, very carefully. </p><p>John was just bringing in the tea when the door downstairs opened and footsteps hurried up the stairs. </p><p>Mycroft knew before the man appeared, but still - the sight of Greg Lestrade gave him the strangest feeling of pleasant surprise. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Are you currently uninterested in romantic or sexual relationships?”</p><p>Mycroft shifted in his seat. </p><p>“There is no wrong answer.” </p><p>He tipped his hand away from his face, where he had been leaning against it. “I know there is no wrong answer. Perhaps I don’t have one for you.” </p><p>“Well, that’s alright, too.” She settled further in her chair. “Is there something else you would like to discuss?” </p><p>Mycroft felt the adolescent urge to groan and squirm. “Not really, no.” He grasped his hands in front of himself to keep them still. “I had sex with someone the night my sister… That night.” He winced. “It was. Ill-advised.”</p><p>“Why do you think it was ill-advised?” </p><p>Mycroft looked away from the window and to the therapist in incredulity. “My sister had just murdered several people. <em> I </em> had just caused the deaths of several people. He was trying to be <em> kind. </em>And I took advantage.”</p><p>“You don’t feel it was consensual?” </p><p>“I didn’t say it wasn’t consensual, I said I took advantage.” </p><p>“Well,” she said, “you were rather vulnerable at the time. It would make more sense to ask whether you were the one being taken advantage of.” </p><p>“I wasn’t.” </p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p>“Of course I’m sure, I <em> wanted—” </em>Mycroft snapped his mouth shut. </p><p>“So, you can’t be taken advantage of,” she said. “Fine, let’s assume that’s true. Is it unthinkable that perhaps this other person can’t, either? Perhaps he is just as impervious as you.” </p><p>“He isn’t. He’s… good.” </p><p>“Mm.” She nodded. “Right. Good, and I suppose very easily manipulated? By you?” </p><p>Mycroft glared at her. </p><p>“Do you still see this person?” </p><p>“Regularly.” </p><p>“In a friendly manner?” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>She shrugged. “People often develop romantic or sexual feelings for their friends. And often, when emotions are running high, those feelings lead to action. Has your friend indicated that he regrets it?” </p><p>Mycroft winced. “No,” he murmured. “He persists in trying to <em> date </em>me.” </p><p>She chuckled. “Oh, dear, how awful.” </p><p>Mycroft resumed his glare. </p><p>“Let’s say your friend told you right here and right now: Mycroft, you didn’t take advantage, I regret nothing, and it’s all fine. Do <em> you </em>regret it?” </p><p>Mycroft felt distinctly caught. </p><p>“No,” he said. “I don’t.”  </p><p>He’d been seeing her for sessions once, sometimes twice weekly for two months. Mycroft could read in her body language when she knew he had more to add. He was tempted to play the fool and pretend there was nothing more to that statement; that there was nothing more to what happened than an instance of heightened emotions leading to a physical release. </p><p>“I do regret that I acted on it when I did,” he said, pushing the words out of his mouth like shards of glass. He <em> hated </em> being this honest. “I… like him. I’ve always liked him. And I worry that I tainted our… friendship.” He sighed. “Or any other type of relationship we could have had.”</p><p>The therapist paused in scribbling notes on the pad of paper balanced on her knee. “Alright,” she said. “Now that, we can work on.” </p><p>Again, he had to stop himself from groaning and squirming in his seat. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Outside on the pavement in front of Baker Street, Mycroft resisted the urge to simply duck into his car and flee. </p><p>“You look good,” Greg said, which went a long way toward keeping Mycroft’s feet where they were. “You’ve been sleeping.” </p><p>“A bit, yes.” Mycroft shifted from foot to foot. “I… have been prescribed a sleep aid, among other things.” </p><p>It nettled Mycroft a little, the way relief was so obvious in Greg’s body language. </p><p>“You saw a doctor.” </p><p>“A government psychiatrist who offers talk therapy.” Mycroft averted his gaze, suddenly finding the brickwork around the door to Speedy’s very interesting. “She is rather… helpful.” </p><p><em> “Good.” </em>Greg took a step closer. “Hey, come on, that’s really good.” </p><p>Mycroft forced himself to make eye contact. “It’s completely embarrassing.” </p><p>“It doesn't have to be.” Greg, hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “So I guess I can go with <em> he’s been busy with work and his psychiatrist, </em>next time I feel a bit down about the fact that you haven’t called.” </p><p>Mycroft winced. “I text.”</p><p>“You text,” Greg agreed. “You text me and you flirt with me, actually.” </p><p>Mycroft bit his tongue to keep from saying ‘<em> You started it.’ </em>He decided that the best route here would be honesty. </p><p>“Texting is simple. Texting skips conveniently over revisiting the way I behaved the last time you saw me.” </p><p>“I don’t want to revisit anything,” Greg said. “I want to be there for you. I told you to <em> call me.” </em></p><p>“Yes, but I… was not at my best. I still am not.” </p><p>“Okay.” Greg nodded. “Yeah, I get it. But. I dunno. Maybe I’m being a bit of a girl about it.” </p><p>Mycroft found himself more amused than annoyed, but he rolled his eyes anyway. “Don’t be tedious. If my assistant heard you say such a thing, she would react with swift violence. Just so you know.” </p><p>Greg laughed. “I’d deserve it. But you know what I mean. I’m not <em> pining </em> for you or anything, I don’t want you to get a big head about it, but. You might’ve called. We could have had lunch. Or something.” </p><p>Mycroft felt his cheeks heat at the implication. He drew a bracing breath, and said, “Are you on your way back to your office?”</p><p>“No,” Greg said. “Actually, I was thinking about lunch and then ducking out early. I was meant to take my nephew for a driving lesson this afternoon, but his mother put the brakes on that, so to speak. His grades aren’t up to snuff. But I could use the downtime, so.” </p><p>“Could I… perhaps I could take you to lunch?” </p><p>Greg’s smile grew slowly. “Perhaps you could,” he said. </p><p>Mycroft might have let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding, but he was caught off guard by how happy the invitation had clearly made Greg. He blinked. <em> Why do you like me so very much, </em>he wondered, then quickly shoved that aside. </p><p>“Excellent,” he said, nodding awkwardly. “Well. My car is—” </p><p>“Let’s take mine,” Greg interrupted. “I never feel like I can talk to you in front of Jeeves or whoever’s driving, and if you ride with me I don’t have to come back here later.” </p><p><em> Why do you want to talk to </em> me? <em> What happened to make you so—  </em></p><p>“Yes,” he forced his mouth to say. “Of course. Lead the way.” </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“And how was lunch?”</p><p>Mycroft shrugged. “Pleasant,” he said. “Friendly? Good, I suppose.” </p><p>“You suppose.” </p><p>“I can’t understand why… I find myself concerned that he has an inaccurate perception of me.” </p><p>The therapist made a sound in her throat that he had learned by now meant: <em> go on.  </em></p><p>“We’re talking about a man who plays a casual game of football every other Sunday.” </p><p>“Alright.” </p><p>“He has a standing appointment at his local pub to buy his former DCI a pint in exchange for advice on his current cases.” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“He is teaching his teenage nephew to drive. He attends his niece’s dance recitals even though they are mind numbingly boring and last three hours, minimum.”</p><p>“What an arsehole! Obviously we hate him!” </p><p>Mycroft rolled his eyes. “The question is, what on earth is he doing socializing with <em> me?”  </em></p><p>She sat back in her chair, appearing inexplicably pleased with him. “Well?” </p><p><em> “Well?” </em> He echoed. </p><p>“You tell me, Mycroft. What is he doing?” </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft’s mother called. They hadn’t spoken in months, not since the day at Sherrinford, where she had said “Take care of yourself,” before turning stiffly away, towing his father behind her to the car waiting beyond the helipad. </p><p>He had been half sure that would be the last thing she ever said to him. </p><p>However, she called. </p><p>“Well, it’s your father’s birthday, as you know, next month.” </p><p>“...yes,” Mycroft only barely remembered to say out loud. It was Tuesday, so he was home, and he had been halfway through a crossword puzzle so easy it was laughable. Now the letters swam and blurred in front of him. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Of course.” </p><p>“Well.” She paused. <em> “Well, </em>your brother and John have agreed to bring the baby to stay for the weekend. We’re going to have a little party. Just the family. Which, of course, means I expect you to be there.” </p><p>“Yes,” he said. “Of course. That is— “ He used to have a much wider vocabulary than this. </p><p>Mummy’s sigh gusted through the phone. “Oh, Myc, for god’s sake. Sherlock told me you were rotting away in that house, feeling sorry for yourself, and from the sound of it—” </p><p>“I am not <em> rotting away.”  </em></p><p>She snorted. </p><p>“And I do not feel sorry for myself.” </p><p>“Well, if that’s what you say, it must be true.” She sniffed. “My <em> point </em> is, you can stop behaving as if you have been cast out of Eden.” </p><p>“I would hardly call Sussex a paradise,” Mycroft snipped. </p><p>“Wouldn’t you? I find it lovely this time of year.”</p><p>Mycroft gaped at nothing, unsure what had happened in the few short minutes since he answered the phone. He attempted to speak, but had no words. </p><p>His mother laughed, a short, half-aborted bark. “You truly do have a knack for getting right up my nose, young man.” </p><p>“It isn’t intentional,” Mycroft said stiffly. </p><p>“I realize that.” She sighed again. “Mycroft, it’s only that you have been finding me wanting since you were all of nine years old.” </p><p>“I <em> haven’t—”  </em></p><p>“You have,” she said. “And I wrongly, and I will admit rather selfishly, responded to what I felt was judgment by… minimizing your concerns.” </p><p>“You are telling me that at nine years old I judged you.”</p><p>“Of course you did. Because I was a terrible mother.” </p><p>“Mummy—” </p><p>“I was,” she interrupted. “I was not suited to it. And I apologize for that.” </p><p>Mycroft was stymied yet again, unable to find words. </p><p>“And now you may apologize to me,” she prompted. “For the matter of your sister.”</p><p>Mycroft sighed. “I <em> have </em> apologized, but I will do so again. I am <em> sorry </em> that I lied to you and Daddy, and I’m <em> sorry </em> that I handled it all so poorly.” </p><p>After a long silence, she said, “You did your best. I will email the details of the birthday party.” </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” the therapist said. “If it helps at all, you are one of many who have participated in the grand tradition of explaining to a mental health professional all the ways in which their mother has damaged them irreparably. Welcome to the club.”</p><p>Mycroft let his head recline against the back of the high armchair. “I suppose my father is at fault as well, but he was barely an authority, and certainly was never our primary caretaker. I suppose he simply had limited opportunities to ruin my psyche.” </p><p>“Oh, good,” she said. “You’ve got that bit figured out all on your own.”</p><p>“Now what?” He demanded. “Tell me what pill to take or thought exercise to do in order to undo all of it.” </p><p>She laughed. “My dear boy, I am seventy-two years old and the voice I hear in my mind every morning when I am choosing which color blouse to wear is, always has been, and always will be, my <em> mother’s.”  </em></p><p>Mycroft groaned. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><b>MH[6:30am]: </b>Not only do I not wish to make running a hobby or focus of my life, I think I might give it up all together. MH</p><p><b>GL[7:15am]: </b>Christ, you run that early?</p><p><b>MH[7:32am]: </b>On days I’m permitted to go into the office at 8, yes. MH</p><p><b>GL[7:36am]: </b>Still hating the time off? </p><p><b>MH[7:38am]: </b>Truth be told, I can’t tell. MH</p><p><b>GL[7:43am]: </b>Don’t be upset with me, but I sort of assumed you were looking for things to do because you planned to stay part time. </p><p><b>MH[7:50am]: </b>I don’t plan to. However, should the decision be made for me, I suppose I ought to have something to do with myself. MH</p><p><b>GL[7:57am]: </b>The Dread Therapist is on you about it, eh?</p><p><b>MH[7:59am]: </b>Yes. For the most part, I want her to let me be. MH</p><p><b>GL[8:45am]: </b>Sorry. Fucking commute. Have you ever considered just doing it because it would be fun for you? </p><p><b>MH[10:15am]: </b>It annoys me when you do that. MH</p><p><b>GL[10:20am]: </b>What are you gonna do, spank me? Whoops, sorry, going into a meeting, talk soon!</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“I think I am dating him, at this point.”</p><p>The therapist smiled from behind her steepled fingers. “Lovely to hear.” </p><p>“It won’t end well.” </p><p>“Who says it has to end?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The therapy scenes in this fic are probably really imperfect. I am loosely basing the way this therapist speaks to and relates to Mycroft to the way my therapist talks to me. In other words, mildly amused, somewhat unimpressed, and very wry and pointed when its called for. I love my therapist XD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>I see myself change as the days change over</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hear the songs and the words don't change</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I write them out of the book right there</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We've been had, you say it's over</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I'm just happy I'm older</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We've been had I know it's over</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Somehow it got easy to laugh out loud</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>--The Walkmen, “We’ve Been Had”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you said that you wish to return to work full time?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft felt suddenly very stupid. “No, I haven’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I wasn’t interested in arguing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With your assistant.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With anyone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But mainly with your assistant, who answers to you. You are her superior.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft huffed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were days when he truly hated therapy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you think I ought to resume a full time work schedule?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg looked up from his perusal of the menu. “Do I think…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was pointed out to me that I haven’t floated the idea, despite complaining about my current schedule. I confess I feel a bit… wrongfooted.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg smiled at him across the table. “You mean you’ve been waiting for Anthea’s permission and just realized that isn’t actually how it’s going to work?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just because you look very good by candlelight does not mean you get to be this impertinent.” Mycroft hid his burning face behind his own menu. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg’s foot nudged his under the table - the most intimate contact they’d had since the time Mycroft impulsively kissed him and then proceeded to barely speak to him for weeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look very nice in fancy restaurants, too,” Greg said cheekily. “I think that’s why you like coming to them so much.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve caught me,” Mycroft deadpanned. He decided he would simply choose one of the specials, and set down the menu without having absorbed a word from it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to go back to work full time?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. He and Greg spent time together frequently lately, and whenever conversation strayed to the topic of Mycroft’s altered life, he felt a sense of discomfort and hesitance. That had gone so poorly that night at Greg’s flat, and more than that, Mycroft felt guilty for being so… needy. He would much rather talk about something interesting. Greg’s cases, his family, his favorite concert, his least favorite classes at school. Greg told stories expressively, a little self-deprecatingly, with a mischievous sparkle that gave him away as the man he actually was: settled, confident, and young at heart in a way that was hard to describe articulately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wanted to ask him if he was a devastatingly attractive young man; if it had ever gone to his head. His highly educated guess was yes, and mostly no. He wanted to hear Greg tell it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Greg wasn’t going to let him deflect, Mycroft knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I do,” he said. “But the fact is that I’ve only just adjusted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> being there seventy hours a week.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg blinked. “You’re there what, a little less than forty now, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quite a bit less.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s quite a bit?” Greg smiled at him, lopsided and fond. “Two? Five? You’re working what most people would consider a full time schedule. And to you, returning to ‘normal’ means working seven days a week?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft refused to look sheepish. He refused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you should take the longest break you can. You’ve worked constantly since, what? After Uni? Your twenties?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft acknowledged it with a tilt of his head. “I started working for the security services when I was twenty. I trained and began work for them while completing my graduate studies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg blew out a breath. “God,” he said. “Sometimes it hits me how impressive you are, and I wonder why in god’s name you’re having dinner with me and not someone who… I don’t know. Owns half of Scotland or something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft reared back, startled. “What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean. Come on, Mycroft.” Greg gestured between the two of them. “I must be beyond boring, to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anger. Mycroft felt inexplicably angry. He breathed slowly to avoid snapping and saying something that would only confirm Greg’s supposition that he was exactly that sort of supercilious prick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure who should be more insulted,” he said at last. “I can’t tell whether you are implying that you are somehow lesser, or that I am in fact a complete stuck up wanker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg laughed, surprised. “I’ve never heard you say </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanker, </span>
  </em>
  <span>do it again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Mycroft reached for his wine. “So, which is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a pause in which Mycroft sipped his wine with narrow eyes and Greg watched him with warm ones filling slowly with a look of comprehension, Greg said, “It’s neither.” His foot bumped Mycroft’s under the table again. “I’m sorry. I was giving you a clumsy compliment. And showing my arse a bit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have never known you to be insecure.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg smiled, lopsided. “Yeah, well. We didn’t talk as much when I was married, did we? You’re not the only one with a therapist who gets on your arse, let’s just put it that way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft chuckled, and then noticed the server approaching from over Greg’s shoulder. “What a pair we make,” he murmured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg’s smile widened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he said. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would it be helpful,” Mycroft ventured the following Monday over lunch, “if I resumed a more typical schedule?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea barely looked up from her fish and chips. “You know,” she said. “When I told you to do something with yourself, I didn’t expect you to spend three hours a week in therapy and the rest of your spare time involving yourself in the slowest courtship I’ve ever witnessed in my life. Has all of that lost its novelty already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft, were he anyone else, would have dropped his jaw. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Pardon?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced up, a wicked little smirk lifting the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. But seriously, you’ve gone rogue on me. And I’m glad. You look well, and you seem… if not perfectly content, then somewhere on your way to it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft scoffed. “There is no such thing as perfect contentment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea plucked up a wedge of potato and then gestured with it. “Ah, there he is. My old friend Mycroft Holmes, the pessimist.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a realist.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are a skilled illusionist, is what you are.” She popped the chip into her mouth and chewed, considering him. “Have you fallen in love with our Detective Inspector?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “No, of course not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not—” Mycroft paused. “I’m not exactly a catch, Anthea, and neither he nor I is much of a romantic.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes he is.” Anthea snorted inelegantly. “And you could be, I think. You’re perfectly lovely when you want to be. You’re just having a bit of a rough patch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah yes, a quarter-century rough patch.” Mycroft went about cleaning up the detritus of his lunch. “None of this has to do with my return to full time work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it does,” she replied. “It wouldn’t do for you to go back to life as a prisoner of this office just when things are going well with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not make decisions based on hypothetical romance.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>not?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes at her and made his way out of the canteen. “I’m going to prepare for the China call this afternoon. Please be a reasonable person when you return to the office.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will do,” she sang, and waved him off over her shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look good,” John said when Mycroft arrived at his parents’ house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes. “How poorly must I have looked before, for everyone to carry on about how good I look now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You looked half in the grave, brother,” Sherlock intoned on his way through the sitting room after an exploring Rosie. “Now you look as sallow and doughy as you always have. Congratulations to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosie gave Mycroft’s knees a friendly pat in passing, then squealed and took off running toward the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t look sallow or doughy,” John assured him. “He’s just being a dick because he cares. Or something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft snorted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that Mycroft?” Daddy poked his head in from the kitchen. “It is!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who else would it be?” Mycroft muttered to himself. “Yes, hello,” he said more loudly for his father to hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent! Come on, come on, let’s get your bags up to your room.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… hadn’t planned to stay,” Mycroft said slowly, a sick feeling of misunderstanding sinking his stomach. “I’m sorry, I assumed my room would be needed for the baby, at least.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From over Daddy’s shoulder, John rolled his eyes, clearly picking up on the careful wording. For all Mycroft knew, he and Sherlock were sharing a bedroom by now. Clearly, they were not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Daddy said, disappointed. “Well. That’s alright. Of course, if you change your mind you can stay and kip in my pajamas.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so,” Mycroft said gently. He lifted a hand to his father’s arm. “Happy Birthday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, my boy,” his father said in his soft, sincere way. “And listen - your mother’s out back with the chickens. She bought </span>
  <em>
    <span>chickens, </span>
  </em>
  <span>by the way. But when she comes inside, she’s going to be a bit… well. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled thinly. “Yes, I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But take it from me, Myc. That woman loves you. Loves you in a way you simply can’t imagine. She’s not going to be angry forever. And she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> understand, a bit. So do I, but we both know I can’t stay angry like she can. Between you and I, she’s been getting a bit angry with her uncle’s ghost these days. I can’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>mention </span>
  </em>
  <span>poor old Rudy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Poor old Rudy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft nearly laughed out loud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” he managed, noncommittal. “Well. I would defend him, but if she wants to direct some of her ire toward a dead man and take some heat off of me...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.” His father nodded meaningfully. “Let it lie, Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded, and was surprised when his father embraced him, one-armed, in a sideways clutch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy,” he said, and tapped Mycroft’s cheek with one hand before moving away. “I’ll see about a cuppa for all of us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft watched him go, a little off balance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s almost like they’re your family,” John said slyly from his seat on the sofa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft blinked at him, a host of responses to that lining up in his mouth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And yours, too apparently; That’s right </span>
  </em>
  <span>mine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so stay out of it; It’s not my fault they never explained what that meant; I need to go phone my therapist now, pardon me; Will you just fuck my idiot brother already and stay out of my business?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Rosie came tearing back into the room to launch herself at John’s lap, giving Mycroft time to escape back out the front door for a cigarette. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft knew what it was to be angry at Uncle Rudy, both the alive and dead versions. It was both easier and more difficult to be furious after he died. Of course, in the first months after, Mycroft was nothing but grieving. And then for a time he was wrapped up in his relationship with Andrew, and with the delicate work of redirecting his career. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until Mycroft finally moved into the house his uncle left him that he started to understand that within him was a deep well of resentment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And not just about Eurus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had felt distinctly like he had been managed. He was in his mid-twenties, and was living in a house steeped in legacy and influence, and also somehow in his uncle’s hard won private life. Mycroft spent months clearing out and storing away old photo albums, closets full of clothing he certainly had never seen his uncle wear - nor any six-foot-tall women, since in retrospect Mycroft was fairly sure that Rudy had hardly known </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>women, let alone ones tall and broad enough to fill out all those gowns and skirts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had packed it all away and while yes, it had amused him and in some ways further endeared his uncle to him, it had made him surprisingly angry to find so much evidence of a private life. Of secrecy that had nothing to do with spy craft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an aspect of living that Uncle Rudy had never bothered to explain to Mycroft. Here were hundreds of photographs of dozens of old lovers, and Mycroft was fairly sure no one in the security services had ever known Rudy had so much as </span>
  <em>
    <span>one. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If anyone had suspected - which surely they must have, considering Rudy’s sexuality being something of an open secret - they had never known names. Never seen faces. Unless Rudy wanted them to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And from all Mycroft could gather, the only people who saw that side of his uncle’s life were people who had absolutely no connection to The Work. The people who came to the dinner parties and the mysterious film screenings Mycroft was not permitted to attend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why hadn’t he taught Mycroft how to do that? Wasn’t that something he’d had to learn himself? Was it something that came naturally?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was Mycroft truly defective? Too awkward? Too analytical? Too ‘prone to social isolation,’ as the first doctors his parents had taken him to said? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In retrospect, Mycroft was rather primed at the time to be angry at someone - whoever had smashed into Andrew, for starters. Andrew’s conservative mother for not knowing her son well enough to know someone was waiting for him at home. His superior officers in MI-6 for making his work so unbearable that he had been restless, looking for a change, and therefore primed to meet a lovely man and fall in love with him and then lose him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chose to be angry at Uncle Rudy for all of it and then some. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spent weeks furious. He debated throwing some of the old man’s things away, simply out of spite (and then, thank god, couldn’t bring himself to do it). He made grand plans to gut the place and make it less insufferably old money. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, of course, things evolved. Mycroft grew busy again. He was struck with the realization that he was the last line of defence between his siblings and the world. He had a bout with appendicitis that reminded him that he was in fact mortal, and he needed to get his head on properly and </span>
  <em>
    <span>focus. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was that. He stopped feeling angry, and with its absence he found himself unwilling to dismantle anymore of the life his uncle had left him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had kept the house the same. He had paid ahead for a permanent storage unit for the most personal items left in the closets. And he had rather thrown himself into stasis. A metaphorical cryo-freeze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In retrospect he thought it was all a little ridiculous. Mycroft was supposedly one of the most intelligent people in the country. He had been told he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> the most intelligent by multiple people who of course had no idea what they were talking about, but he knew it was close enough to true. And yet half a century on Earth and he was only now understanding how to manage himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had managed coups. He had planned complex operations with the literal fate of the world resting on his shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet he could not have spoken an honest feeling out loud to save his life until the year he was going to turn </span>
  <em>
    <span>fifty. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ridiculous. But at least he had got there, in the end. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock found him and demanded a cigarette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John and I have an arrangement,” he said, speaking around the filter. “I can smoke in Sussex. Nowhere else. And I can’t hold the baby until I’ve showered.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft chuckled. He loved that. That was… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had never quite felt a feeling like the one filling his chest and throat now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did they put you on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft cast him a sideways glance. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“They?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever team of doctors that harridan you call an assistant has you seeing.” Sherlock took a long, indulgent drag. “You look quite peaceful. I assumed it must be chemical.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft snorted and shook his head. “It’s just the one. A psychiatrist who also offers therapy. Former agent. File so full of redaction it’s practically pointless having it. Retired. You know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Sherlock nodded, staring off into the distance instead of looking at Mycroft. “Alright. What’s she given you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only a sleep aid.” Mycroft shrugged. “And an antidepressant. Low dose. Nothing too sedating. I couldn’t bear it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Sherlock nodded again. “That’s good. The second rehab gave me a fairly heroic dose of… something. Right out of the gate. I don’t recommend it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I regret choosing that facility,” Mycroft admitted. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock lifted and dropped both shoulders, his face hidden behind the hand holding his cigarette. “Either bring it up with your therapist or take my word for it: you may release yourself from any and all guilt on that matter. Sorry I did so much heroin. And cocaine. And pills. And so on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed quietly into his own cupped hand. “Alright, then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sleeping with Graham?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t bother to pretend to be startled. “You know his name, Sherlock. He told me that you even refer to him by it in front of him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock said nothing, but his expression clearly communicated that his fun had been spoiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mycroft said. “I am not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” Sherlock finished his cigarette and flicked the butt away. Mycroft would have to go find it later and dispose of it before their mother came across it. “Maybe you should.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft looked at him askance. “Are we doing this? Shall we discuss </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> sex life, Sherlock? Tell me, brother, when are you going to—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway! Good talk, Mycroft.” Sherlock shammed a smarmy smile. “See you in there. Have to go shower now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose that’s my answer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock, walking backwards into the house, paused. “And what is that supposed to mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled to himself and turned away to hide it, tapping another cigarette out of his pack. Instead of answering, he simply made the sound of a whip with his mouth, and enjoyed the disgruntled squawk it won him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a baby present, dinner was less awkward than it could have been. She was messy and noisy, but as small children went, well-behaved and charming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s a ham,” John said when Mummy commented as much. “She knows when to crank up the charm.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She gets it from me,” Sherlock said, an offhand joke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it drew all eyes on the table his way, particularly Mycroft’s. Mycroft knew he looked wide-eyed and gleeful, and did not care. This was the most exciting thing to happen in ages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Daddy said with an irrepressible smile giving him away. “Well, yes. I suppose she does.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was John Watson’s reaction in which Mycroft was most interested. The man’s face did the most interesting things when he was attempting to process emotions. Mycroft had witnessed this particular combination of twisted lips, unfocused eyes, and working jaw before. He would bet his savings that the man had his hand clenched in his lap. But he was nodding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” he said at last. “She does.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock had taken to blinking down at his plate, apparently realizing what he had just implied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Mummy said, “I hope you invest in plastic kitchenware, John, if she’s going to be picking things up from him!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And everyone chuckled, and things moved on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft noted not only the shifting air between his brother and John, but the way all of them seemed to settle and relax. The way contentment was a palpable thing in the air of the dining room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He noted, too, that for the first time in a long time, he saw his family - the people who he had thought, for his entire life, were his responsibility (and yes, sometimes his burden) - well and happy, and did not immediately think that it was good that in the event of his demise he would be leaving them well situated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What an odd feeling, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> think in those terms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he thought of how he would like to be doing this with someone in the seat beside his. And he thought: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Someday. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was even more odd. But at once… incredible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things devolved into warm whiskey-drunk ramblings on the part of Daddy, and dozing by the fire with a lapful of sleeping baby on that of Mummy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay the night,” Sherlock murmured to Mycroft. “It will make Daddy happy, which will put you in her good graces. And you can drink with John.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tumbler was already being passed over Mycroft’s shoulder by John, who said “Cheers,” and sat down the length of the sofa once Mycroft had the drink in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really hadn’t planned to stay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do it anyway,” John told him cheerfully. “Sherlock, sit down, you’re looming.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll do that,” Daddy said, a little slurred, from his seat by the fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock huffed, but rounded the sofa to sit between John and Mycroft. “Alright, now what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, we do this.” John held out his class. “Come on, clink clink. We three are still alive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled despite himself and tapped the rim of his tumbler against John’s. “Hear, hear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock tipped his head in acknowledgment and did the same, the three of them taking identical sips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that moment, Daddy turned in his chair to all of them and launched into a long, protracted story involving Mr Pruitt down the lane and his entry into the village fair’s large vegetables category. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft drank and listened. Every so often, his gaze drifted over to his mother, no longer dozing, but clearly in her own thoughts. Her eyes were trained on the fire, but her hands were active on Rosie’s sleeping form. Her fingers stroked over the baby’s honey-blonde curls, and her other hand patted an absent beat on the pajama-clad back. She rocked ever so slightly in her seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was his mother. Sherlock’s mother. Eurus’ mother. And while Mycroft couldn’t recall ever seeing her do that with his siblings, and couldn’t remember, of course, her holding him that way, he could see the muscle memory in every movement. She had done this exact series of movements, with three sleeping babies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And one of them, as far as she had known, had died. And one of them had forgotten the one that was gone. And all three of them were very difficult people to love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, possibly ever, Mycroft felt a phantom imitation of some small percentage of the grief his mother must have felt. Must still feel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a hefty swallow of whiskey and tuned back into his father’s story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, Sherlock shifted, leaning into Mycroft’s space just a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Talk to her,” he said, very softly. Then, more loudly as he stood, “Mummy, I’ll take her. We should put her in the travel cot before she wakes and sees us all and desires entertainment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy was reluctant to part with the sleeping bundle, but she said, “Yes, of course. Here darling, mind her—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got her,” Sherlock said quietly, and took Rosie in one deft, swooping motion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll come up, too,” John said, popping joints and stretching as he stood. He turned to Mycroft. “We’ll bunk in his old room,” he said. “That’s where the cot is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft arched an eyebrow at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s this,” John muttered, “show up and babysit that one - the little girl, not the six foot tall man baby - hmmm… let’s say twice. And you get to say a couple words about our… whatever it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a deal,” Mycroft replied, hiding his amusement in his glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock and John trooped out of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy cleared her throat. “Your father’s nodding off,” she said. “I’m going to put him to bed, as well. You wait here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of Mycroft’s eyebrows flew up. “Stay here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard me,” she said crisply, then slapped Daddy, who really was swaying in his seat, on the knee. “Up, you! Let’s go! Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire with you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daddy groaned but allowed her to lever him up and out of the armchair. He staggered a bit on his feet. “Thanks for staying, old chap,” he said, words blurry. “I’ll cook a cracking breakfast tomorrow, just you wait.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crumpets, please,” Mycroft said, suddenly feeling all of twelve years old. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father smacked his shoulder in passing. “Anything for you, my boy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was either sit there and have a mild emotional crisis, or get up and stretch his own limbs. He got up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A meandering circuit around the room showed all the same tchotchkes and framed photos as always. He thought his parents ought to swap out some of the contents of the frames, or add newer ones. He was fairly sure there wasn’t a single photograph of any of them past 1988 in the room. They were due for new furniture, too. The armchairs would be restuffed and newly upholstered, as they had been since time immemorial, but the sofa changed every decade or so.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft ran a hand over the worn fabric covering the chair in which his mother always sat in the evenings. It was always shades of blue, with an innumerable number of tartan blankets strewn over it over the years. Next to the chair, as always, was her knitting basket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For reasons he couldn’t understand as he did it, Mycroft bent and picked up the mass of fabric on top. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a scarf,” she said from behind him. “Meant for your father for today, but of course I got distracted the way I usually do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft turned. “It’s lovely. A marvel, how you make a bit of string do all this.” He stroked a thumb over a knot of cables. “Do you find it relaxing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorted. “Sit,” she commanded, pointing at his father’s chair. Once they were both situated, Mycroft still holding the mostly-finished scarf, she said, “No, it does not relax me, but gardening was starting to get to my knees and the chickens aren’t an all-day occupation.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft considered his mother, swathed in a tasteful shawl that she probably knit herself, secured around her shoulders with a rustic twist of metal that he was certain his father had made in his little workshop out behind the house. Her hair - greyish white, but he could still see it reddish blonde in his mind - was twisted up on the top of her head with a plastic clip, and her eye makeup was just slightly smudged. She looked both the same as she ever had, and much different. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you regret leaving your career for us?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scoffed. “I did not leave my career for the three of you. I did it for myself. You have no idea the amount of energy it takes to carry on a full time work schedule and a family. It’s absolutely possible, of course, and I applaud all who manage it. But your father made a very good salary, you know, plus the inheritance. And it isn’t as if the Vernet coffers hadn’t situated me quite nicely. There was no point in bashing my head against a brick wall, day in and day out, dealing with my superiors - all men, by the way - for half pay. What was the point?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft inclined his head. “I can understand that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you?” She zeroed in on him with laser focus. “I assure you that you can’t, when it comes to wages and being called </span>
  <em>
    <span>darling</span>
  </em>
  <span> by smarmy old men. But I wonder where this sudden lackadaisical attitude has come from. All you do is work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not lately.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” She gestured with two fingers, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>go on </span>
  </em>
  <span>sort of motion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m working a much shorter schedule.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am aware. For how long?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… do not know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft gazed down at the patterns in the scarf. His hand was squeezing the folded bunches of the long knitted end, absently testing the weight and spring. “I find myself at loose ends, much of the time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose you would,” she murmured. “Alright. Well. What have you tried?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced up, surprised at the turns the conversation had taken. “Cooking,” he answered. “Running more. Eating. Smoking. Walking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked away, a laugh unvoiced on her lips as she shook her head. “Oh, why are you all such utter pains in my arse?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barked a laugh. “A mild way of putting it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned back to him and rolled her eyes in the same way Mycroft and Sherlock both rolled their eyes, an inherited mannerism. She held out her hand. “Give me that before you stretch it all out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took the scarf and dropped it in her own lap even as she leaned over to dig through the knitting basket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good,” she said, not looking at him. “Taking time off. Cutting back. It’s time you had a life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed, bracing himself for pointed criticisms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glance at him, hands pausing inside the basket. “I mean it,” she said. “It’s time you had things other than work. I realize my uncle saddled you with the weight of the world, not to mention his all-important approval, but he’s dead and the world will get on with itself whether you die at your desk or not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned back to her task and Mycroft blinked at her profile. He couldn’t recall her ever saying anything so exactly correct in reference to him. It was a shock, actually, that he felt almost physically. His mother knew him, on some level. And in his mind, Mycroft’s therapist tipped her fingers and said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Imagine!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” she said, resurfacing with a small ball of thick cotton thread and two sets of straight needles. “Take these.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft took the yarn and one pair of needles. She held onto the second pair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now,” she said. “Hold one needle thusly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And his mother taught him how to knit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Absurd. But. Oddly soothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you find it soothing,” she groused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t,” he said, stabbing one needle through a loop around the other, “why do it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I enjoy being annoyed, obviously, and thank god for that, all things considered,” she snipped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft glanced up from the yarn wrapped around his finger and the metal weapons in his hands. She was watching him with softer eyes than he might have expected from her tone. He couldn’t remember the last time he had asked his mother for help. He couldn’t remember the last thing she had </span>
  <span>taught </span>
  <span>him. To use a spoon, to tie his shoelaces, to build a campfire. How to scramble eggs (to date the only thing he can cook well). Calculus. The perfect way to arch one’s left eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he said after a moment. “For… inviting me this weekend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That wasn’t what he meant at all, but it would have to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She quirked that left eyebrow. “Thank you for keeping your brother and sister safe,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft still hadn’t wept, not once since all of the horror took place. Not once in years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He came close, just then. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You will notice ONE MORE chapter added to the total. Chapter 13 got so long I had to cut it in two! But here we are at chapter 11, which is a good one :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Sleeping for years</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Pick through what is left</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Through the pieces that fell and rose from the depth</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>From the rainwater well</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deep as a secret nobody knows</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>--New Pornographers, “Adventures in Solitude” </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft walked a circuit around the house, hands in his pockets. He’d taken to wearing the bare minimum components of a suit on his days off. This particular Tuesday he had dressed in trousers and shirtsleeves and foregone his tie and waistcoat. Summer was pressing in, and the house was always hellishly hot that time of year. It was always too cold in winter, too. The place was expensive to heat and cool, draughty, and over-large. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft made a face at one of the portraits as he passed it. Those were too large, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The entire place was incorrectly proportioned. Too many floors, oddly low-ceilinged mezzanine that served to purpose but to look over crowded by terrible old art. The kitchen was good, but of course Mycroft never used it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He landed in the study, which he had told himself he would use on Tuesdays. He had even gone so far as to have the secure line installed and the windows coated to prevent photography of the contents of the room from outside of it. He hadn’t set foot in there once. His Tuesdays rarely involved anything to do with work - at first by Anthea’s very transparent and heavy-handed design, and then eventually by Mycroft, who was used to the stretch of the open schedule.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He attended his first therapy session of the week in the morning, and usually ran after. Outdoors if the weather was good, on the treadmill if it wasn’t. And then the rest of his day was often dedicated to reading (and sometimes actually enjoying it) or films (his taste for them having returned) or attempting to cook simple meals for himself. He was getting rather good at a basic roast chicken. Sometimes there was furtive knitting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He landed often at Baker Street, especially on the days when he woke with a creeping sense of unease, the sick dropping sensation of fear in the pit of his stomach, and the urge to call Anthea and request a CCTV check at his brother’s current location. After the first few impromptu visits to 221B, including once when Sherlock happened to be out, Sherlock seemed to always be home on Tuesdays around noon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mycroft often saw Greg for dinner on Tuesdays. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He dug his mobile out of his pocket. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>MH[1:24pm]: </b>
  <span>Would you mind meeting at mine this evening? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>GL[1:25pm]: </b>
  <span>Were your ears burning? Sherlock was just here badgering me about you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>MH[1:25pm]: </b>
  <span>What did you tell him to get him to go away? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>GL[1:25pm]: </b>
  <span>Ha! Gave him a cold case file and threatened him with the usual. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>GL[1:25pm]: </b>
  <span>Anyway, sure, we can meet there. Thoughts on dinner? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>MH[1:26pm]: </b>
  <span>Order in? There is a decent Indian restaurant very close to here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>GL[1:26pm]: </b>
  <span>Perfect. You can show me another detective film. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>MH[1:26pm]: </b>
  <span>If you like. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>GL[1:27pm]: </b>
  <span>I like. Gtg, Donovan here. See you around six :) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft was gathering his things to end his work day on Thursday when he finally made the decision. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anthea?” He called. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She took a moment, and was digging absently in her purse when she slid sideways through the gap in his office door. “Please tell me you don’t want to go over the—” She looked up. “Oh, thank god you’re heading out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Plans?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Date. He’s a bit of a twit but he’s got shoulders you wouldn’t believe.” She was distracted again, eyes in the purse. She paused and glanced up. “Sorry. Bit inappropriate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft was already smiling. He struck a thoughtful pose. “No, I think we could make these supposedly exceptional shoulders somehow my business. Do go on.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smirked. “Careful, I might just tell you all the gory details—  ah!” She held up a tube of lipstick, triumphant. “Got it. But not my compact.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft quirked an eyebrow and crossed to the closet in the corner. He opened it, revealing the mirror attached to the inside. Three of his suits still hung in there, but he hadn’t needed to change clothes at work in months now. “Feel free,” he said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, sir,” she said, and stepped up to the mirror in order to carefully apply a coat of berry-shaded lip color. “You called, by the way?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh—” He moved away to head back to his desk and pick up his briefcase again. “I just wondered if you would text me the details of the estate agent you used when you bought your flat, if you still have them.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She capped her lipstick and pressed her lips together, releasing them with a pop. “Of course I do.” She turned from the mirror. “Planning to expand your real estate portfolio, sir?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He huffed. “No. I want to sell, and find somewhere new.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea’s eyebrows flew to her hairline. “Seriously?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She grinned. “What brought this on?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is simply… time.” Mycroft sighed. “I thought of renovating, but… no. I think I simply want to move.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well.” She nodded. “Alright, then. I like it. Fresh start.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fresh start,” he agreed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I certainly can send the details,” she said, “but if you like I can arrange it for you—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He held up a hand to stop her. “No, no. I can handle it. It isn’t as if I don’t have the time. Besides… I think that’s rather below your pay grade at this point.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m your assistant.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea’s shoulders stiffened. She turned away to check her reflection once more, and then slowly shut the closet door. “Are we going to argue this out again?” She asked, turning and leaning against it. “I’m not after your job.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps you should be.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her jaw nearly dropped, but she caught herself before it could fully disengage from the rest of her. She drew herself up to full height, obviously working into a state of indignation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“What?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m… '' Mycroft chose his words carefully. “I think we may be due a restructure. You have taken on half of my duties by now, and I don’t see any reason to change that, other than to remove your old duties - or most of them, anyway - from your plate. You can begin interviewing for a general office assistant, if you like. We can share, until such time as you take over.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea blinked and looked away. “What are you saying to me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing frightening,” he said gently. “I’m not leaving now. I’m not going to lock myself in a dark room and never come out. I’m not going to drop dead. I’m simply… preparing, gradually, for retirement.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She lifted a hand to the corner of her eye. “Oh.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft dropped the briefcase again and stepped forward. “What’s this?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just—” She drew a breath, hardly shaky at all but still - he could hear emotion in it. “I’m so relieved.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Relieved?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, you idiot,” she snapped, definitely a little wet around the edges. “Damn it, now I’ll need to do my mascara again.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft removed a handkerchief from his inside pocket and handed it to her. “Dab, don’t rub.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I know, I’ve cried my mascara off before, thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes and sighed. “I’ve been so worried for you,” she said. “This is the most wonderful thing you could have said to me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I’ve put you in an awful position these past months. These many years, probably.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shook her head, staring down at her hands as they absently folded the handkerchief. “No. It’s really alright. I… it’s a privilege, you realize, working with you. I…” She looked up at him, annoyed and angry and a touch amused. “I love you like family, you know. And I know that makes you uncomfortable, but you’ll have to just… deal with it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckled. “Alright. I will, as you say, deal with it.” He paused. “There are no cameras in this office.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, there aren’t,” she said, and flung her arms around his shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hugged her back, and internally congratulated himself on how easily he did it. How naturally. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Imagine that. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>proud of you,” Anthea said fiercely to his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I of you,” he murmured. “Now come along. You won’t get to touch anyone’s gorgeous shoulders looking like this. Fix your makeup and we’ll go.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll have you know,” she said, stepping back and dabbing again at her eyes and cheeks, “that I could have him six ways from Sunday looking like I was just dragged through a muddy turnip patch.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course you could,” he agreed, and though women weren’t really his area of expertise, he knew that it was true. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I asked Greg’s opinion about it,” Mycroft said. “About the merits of renovating versus those of simply selling the place.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And he suggested you sell?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. He thought I should renovate. He thought it sounded exciting.” Mycroft laughed. “Apparently he watches remodeling shows when he brings paperwork home in the evening.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His therapist smiled. “So, why are you selling?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…” Mycroft thought his answer through, and was surprised at the conclusion he came to. “I want to choose my own home. I didn’t realize how much that could matter, to be quite honest, but it does matter. To me, anyway. I have never liked the Pall Mall house.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know why you kept living there, despite disliking it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” He sighed. “At the time, I think I wanted to be my uncle. I wanted to attempt to absorb some of his… whatever it was that made him able to do the things he did. To make the decisions he made. And I was angry, and grieving. I wasn’t thinking very clearly, in retrospect. And over the years, it felt a bit like I might be somehow insulting my uncle’s memory, selling the house. Or as if I were giving up the last piece of him. The car is gone. His things are packed away and I have never looked at them since I stored them. And now the house. One day my mother will be gone, and… Not that my family has ever been precious about things like inheritance and ancestral homes, not since ours half burned down.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He paused, shooting the therapist a sheepish look. “I suppose the shock of losing my home as a child may have had something to do with my unwillingness to let this one go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>may </span>
  </em>
  <span>have,” she replied, eyes sparking behind her glasses. “Well. I must say, I am impressed with your analysis of this choice.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he murmured. “So am I. I’m practically a functioning person.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughed. “You were always that. But now I think you may just be functioning </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> pleasing yourself. You may even be </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps I am. Or something close to it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” she said. “Let’s keep going then, shall we?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded. “Yes.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve decided about the house,” Mycroft said. It was another Tuesday, a couple of weeks later, and the heatwave had finally receded. It was a gorgeous afternoon in St. James’ Park, and Mycroft had already walked a good bit of it while waiting for Greg to meet him after a court appearance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg glanced over, hands in the pockets of his best court suit, and smiled. “Yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m selling,” Mycroft said. “I… rather think I’d like the future to involve a place I actually like. One that I choose for myself.” He stopped talking and walking, glancing back at Greg, who had come to a sudden halt. “You don’t think I should?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you should,” Greg said. He shook his hands out at his sides. “Really? You’re really going to sell it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s already listed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg’s face underwent a shift, looking for a moment like it didn’t know what to do. And then he grinned. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed. “Yes, really. What’s gotten into y—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg cut the sentence short by taking two quick strides forward, catching Mycroft with a hand at the side of his face, and pressing their lips together, sweet and simple. Chaste. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Mycroft’s pulse thundered in his ears from the moment it happened, his breath having caught in his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It started impulsive - quick and dry, a respectable distance between them. But after a moment in which Mycroft did not pull back and even managed to remember to press back, Greg stepped further into his space until he was close enough to be held. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg pulled away enough to speak. “Sorry, was that oka—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft interrupted this time, cognizant enough to step forward, bringing them fully chest-to-chest, and to slip an arm around Greg’s waist beneath his suit jacket. Greg made a soft, pleased sound against Mycroft’s mouth, and his other hand joined the first, cupping Mycroft’s face in his palms. The kiss was slow and warm, going just hot enough to hint at what it could become if only they weren’t in the middle of the park. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When it ended, it was because Greg had begun to smile again, too widely to manage kissing any longer. Mycroft was slightly too dizzy to grin like a complete loon, but he was doing it in spirit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That,” Greg said, “was like a film. The credits should be rolling about now. Swelling music. All that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft chuckled and without consciously deciding to do it, tightened his hold on Greg’s body, his arm curled around so that his hand could squeeze at his hip. “What… what brought that on?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I realized months ago that you weren’t ever going to make a move,” Greg said, laughing. “I was just… waiting for it to feel alright for me to do it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft swallowed. “And it felt alright now? Today?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Greg replied decisively. “Yes it did.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg leaned in and took one more chaste peck from Mycroft’s lips, surprising him again. “Because you said ‘the future.’”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The realtor, Crisanne, was good. She was efficient and straightforward, and very businesslike in her approach. It was obvious to Mycroft why Anthea chose to work with her. And it was obvious she was well aware of the security concerns Mycroft would need to keep in mind when house hunting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was no reason he should find the process difficult. But.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crisanne started with a list of questions about what he was looking for in a house. Mycroft was at something of a loss. Seated across from him in the formal sitting room, she seemed taken aback by this at first. Mycroft had introduced himself as Anthea’s employer, and Crisanne had seemed to feel she had the measure of him based on that. It wouldn’t surprise Mycroft if he learned that Anthea had chosen a flat efficiently and with a clear set of parameters already prepared before she ever called the estate agent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft probably would have been the same way, before. But now…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m looking for a change,” he said after a pause to attempt to gather his thoughts and describe a place he would want to live. “First and foremost, simply a change.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crisanne looked around at the heavily paneled, chandelier-lit sitting room. “The complete opposite of this? Or somewhere more to the center of the spectrum?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What would be the complete opposite of this?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ultra modern, open plan, sleek lines, lots of glass and rock. That sort of thing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Mycroft said decisively. “Not that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm.” Crisanne drummed her fingers against the arm of her chair. “Alright let’s try this: have you lived in places other than this one?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which was your favorite?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My flat. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled. “I rented a flat for a time. It was… a bit rough around the edges, to be quite honest. I didn’t choose it for its upscale location, let us put it that way.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you choose it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… liked the way the light came through the windows in the main rooms. The front door opened into the kitchen, and the rooms were situated one right after the other: a dining space, a lounge, two bedrooms side by side after that with a shared bathroom. The lounge had enormous windows that let in the most amazing golden-hour light in the early evenings. The entire place would go yellow and then orange and then purple. The smaller of the two bedrooms felt… almost fortress-like, with all that in between it and the outside world. And it was… </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I had good neighbors, but also… it just was. Quiet.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crisanne seemed to study him for a moment. “What did you like about the neighborhood?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He told her: the museum where Andrew worked; the cafe on the corner with the Korean pastries; the park not too far of a walk. It had been an unfussy place. A little trendy further into the neighborhood. Interesting films at a tiny independent theater that closed long ago. Two or three </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> good live music venues within walking distance. And, he even told her this: no one living there knew him at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” he said. “I hardly go out, and I’m a little too old to attempt </span>
  <em>
    <span>trendiness.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He smiled. “Not that I wish to.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughed quietly, having begun taking notes on a tablet. “Well, I don’t think one is ever too old to attempt a reinvention,” she said. “But you do seem like something of a classic, so let’s not mess with that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft flushed at the implied compliment. “Ah. Well.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crisanne glanced up and chuckled at whatever she saw on his face. “Just you? Pets? Visiting family? Significant other?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft drew a breath and thought that through. “No pets, but let’s plan for a dog. A small garden might be nice but isn’t a necessity. A guest room for family. A spare room besides, perhaps, just in case. Significant other… yes.” That hadn’t actually been… </span>
  <em>
    <span>defined, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so to speak. But. “I don’t live with anyone.However…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just in case,” she said, conspiratorial. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed, feeling a bit surreal. “Yes. Just in case.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turned off her tablet and set it aside. “That is a good start, believe it or not. We’ll worry about style later. I’ll send you some listings, you can tell me what you think, and we can go from there. Do some walkthroughs. Yes?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Meanwhile,” she said, “this place is going to go fast, so we need to move. Meaning, I’m going to head out of here and get to work.” She stood and extended her hand. “Mr. Holmes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stood as well and shook her hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s take you home,” she said, and squeezed his palm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I… I’m afraid I couldn’t text,” Mycroft said into his mobile. “I’m rather one-handed at the moment, and attempting to text with my left is an absolute wash.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg chuckled over the line. “Finally, something you can’t do well. Texting with the left. I found it. Found the flaw.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed quietly. “The </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> flaw, yes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One-handed?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft glanced down at the little girl currently sleeping with the solidity of a rock on his right arm. “I happen to be… well. There is no more dignified word for it. I’m babysitting.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a stunned silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Contain your shock.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg stuttered into a laugh. “No, I mean—  how’d that happen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I foolishly told John Watson many moons ago that I would babysit his daughter in exchange for prying rights into his and my brother’s relationship. Prying rights, I would like to point out, that I do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> want.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… am so confused.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft snorted. “A joke went awry, is the easy version. I stopped by to discuss the financial particulars related to the house - because technically, Sherlock does own some of the house - only to find Sherlock and Dr Watson in a bit of a tizzy. Mrs Hudson’s seems to have gone to visit her sister. They have a client. Et cetera. I volunteered, because I have utterly lost my mind these past few months, and apparently can no longer comport myself in a reasonable manner.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg practically cackled. “Yeah sure, and from what I hear Rosie’s taken a bit of a shine to you, which I bet is a stroke to the old ego.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft blushed despite himself. “She is a charming child.” He sighed. “But, she also exhausted herself, and yet refused to sleep in her cot. A little separation anxiety, I think. High-volume wailing. I utilized your approved sleep aide.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My what-now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I turned on Bake Off, and she was out like the proverbial light. On top of my right arm.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg hummed. “That is beyond precious. I don’t know what to do with myself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s cheeks burned more intensely. “Please.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m embarrassing you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “I…” Mycroft gaped helplessly. “That is, I—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you mind if I came by to keep you company? I uh… I was angling for a dinner date when I texted. I worked late, came home, planned on ordering a curry and calling it a night as early as I could manage, but. I missed you a bit. So.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Good lord. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, you can come here. Please do.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Greg had the spare key to the place, and let himself in so that Mycroft wouldn’t need to disturb the sleeping baby. Mycroft attempted a disgruntled look as his photo was taken. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Greg said. “Couldn’t resist.” He pocketed his mobile and paused. “Is it… is it weird if I kiss you hello, or—  We haven’t really. Um.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They hadn’t seen each other since the day in the park. They had spoken plenty through texts. Greg had dialed back on the flirtation, compared to before the kiss and hadn’t brought it up. Mycroft had been somewhat at a loss, wondering if it had all been a delusion of some kind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It isn’t… weird,” Mycroft said, heart rate already hitching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg gave a fast sigh of relief, and then leaned forward, bracing himself with a hand on the back of the sofa, the other hand against Mycroft’s cheek just the same as it had been in the park. “Hey,” he said, and then pressed his lips, too briefly, to Mycroft’s. “So I guess we’re doing that now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, please,” Mycroft found himself saying. “Ah… perhaps not with a toddler on my lap, though.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed very quietly. “Alright. Want me to move her? If she wakes up it’s okay, I’ll help get her back down. Can you still feel your right hand?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Barely. Yes, try to—  she’s actually a rather heavy sleeper, once she drifts off. I was afraid I would drop her, trying to stand with her. She is also heavy, full stop.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that Mycroft had learned over time meant fondness. “No worries,” he said. “I’ve done this a time or two.” And with that, he took Rosie deftly from Mycroft’s lap with only a near-silent grunt. “Lord, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> solid.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like I said.” Mycroft shook out his arm, sleeve wrinkled all to hell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg winked at him and headed off with the baby, toting her up to John’s old bedroom and her spare cot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft stood to stretch the rest of himself, a little achy from sitting in one awkward position for so long. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think they’re going to move back in?” Greg asked when he returned, gesturing vaguely at the upstairs bedroom. “What’s going on there?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something is, Mycroft said. “But I don’t know what, exactly. Whatever it is, they both seem… content. Calm. Don’t you think?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do,” Greg agreed. “It’s lovely to see.” He stepped closer to Mycroft. “Same for you. You… you look fantastic.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I?” Mycroft attempted not to shift nervously from foot to foot. “I feel… completely out of step, actually.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’re okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded. “I’m fine. Better. I think it’s good, in this case, to not… to act differently.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “You know what they say about doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg huffed and drifted even closer, hands slipping with incredible ease to Mycroft’s hips. “You’ll hit your stride,” he said. “You already are.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t bother finding words. He wanted to thank Greg for his constancy. Wanted to apologize for the bizarre way he had acted immediately after Sherrinford. He wanted to explain that he had been guiltily attracted to Greg for years, and that he never planned to act on it, but if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it wouldn’t have been like it was, all of it so desperate and disconnected and tinged. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of any of that, none of which he would be able to articulate eloquently, he ducked his head for a kiss, intending to keep it as careful and gentle as all the others had been since the previous week. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg hooked a hand around the back of Mycroft’s head, sighed against his mouth, and did something with his tongue against Mycroft’s lower lip that had him gasping, and then very, very quickly there was nothing careful or gentle about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s entire body was immediately electrified with it, with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>shock</span>
  </em>
  <span> of it. He still couldn’t recall the finer details of their first kiss. He had impressions of very good sex with a partner he could logically say had been skilled. But Mycroft had shied from it, and was still shying away. This, though. Desire and amazement fizzed through Mycroft’s veins, sinking in through his skin from every place they touched. Greg kissed thoroughly and firmly. It was—  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chemistry of it was— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft broke the kiss to pant against Greg’s cheek. “I—  I absolutely cannot do anything remotely close to </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> activity that could be termed ‘sex’ in my brother’s lounge. I can’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg shook with a laugh. “God, no,” he said. “I wasn’t going to—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m…” Mycroft drew a breath in, shaky with nerves and embarrassment. “It has been a while. Other than the—  other than you. A very long while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg leaned back and away. His hands hand migrated down from Mycroft’s cheeks to his shoulders. He squeezed. “Hey, listen, I think we should strike that other time from the record. Or agree to call it… I don’t know. A pilot episode.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft gasped out a surprised laugh. “Oh?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean.” Greg’s eyebrows drew together meaningfully. “It was good for me, don’t get me wrong. But I know I can make it better for you. I know I can. When you’re not… devastated. The way that you were.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft let his eyes fall shut. Let himself be tugged forward into a swaying embrace. “Thank you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just kiss me one more time,” Greg said. “Then we’ll watch Bake Off. If you think you can handle Paul right now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed and turned his head, and they kissed again, arms wrapped and hands clasping, as if poised for a slow dance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s ribcage shuddered from the butterfly feeling he couldn’t remember experiencing in years and years. He knew the science of it, of course: nerve endings, constricted blood flow, so on. He also knew the name for it. The surprised, grateful, possessive, obsessive, infatuated, adoring nature of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shook with it, and the kiss kept on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when they were interrupted by a highly amused pair of absolute wankers (as Greg called them through hands splayed over his face), Mycroft could hardly bring himself to care, too busy working desperately to hide it from Sherlock, to keep this one thing secret for himself a little while longer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Sherlock’s eyes were sharp and considering, scanning over Mycroft as he moved to gather his waistcoat and tie from where he had left them in the kitchen so they wouldn’t get messy when he fed Rosie her evening meal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To Mycroft’s relief and no small measure of surprise, he didn’t speak. Did not call it out. Did not taunt him. He met Mycroft’s eyes with his own and the quirk of his lips and twitch of his cheek; the flare of his nostrils and the rise and fall of his eyebrows all said: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Isn’t it just the strangest feeling? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft looked back at him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. Pray you don’t lose it. It fucking hurts. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock’s mouth fell open. He looked away: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry, I didn’t know. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft brushed Sherlock’s hand with his own when he passed by him to leave the flat. “Greg? I can walk you to your car.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, great,” Greg said. “Get me away from these nutters, please.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good night, boys,” John Watson said, a bit sing-song and a lot smug, as they escaped via the stairs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“All of this seems very positive,” said the therapist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft acknowledged this with a tip of his fingers. “It is,” he said. “But.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But.” He paused. “I feel now as though it was all too easy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She raised both eyebrows. “You feel the last several months of your life have been easy?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it seems awfully fast, does it not?” He leaned forward in his chair. “I see you twice a week and take a pill and suddenly—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This has not been sudden, Mr Holmes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reared back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Mr Holmes?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry. Habit. That’s how I used to talk to junior agents who were talking absolute shit.” She smirked at him. “You have done some work here, you realize?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Work.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, work. When you first came to speak with me, you were convinced that you had simply failed in your quest to be everything to everyone in all the British Empire, such as it is, and when you were shocked by the fact that this was not perhaps the most realistic of goals, you had no idea what to do with yourself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t dispute that, but. “I still don’t have the slightest clue what I’ll do now, you realize. I have a ball of yarn and a pair of knitting needles my mother foisted upon me over a month ago, and not much else in the way of enrichment. I’ve gone and half-quit my job, which in fact is the only significant other I’ve had last more than a year in my life.” He huffed, building up some steam on the subject. “I’m selling my house. I don’t know where I’ll live. I’m horribly and rather stupidly in love with a man who is ordinary and kind, and who could not possibly last, I am sorry to say, because I am frankly the most bizarre and emotionally malformed human being in this country, if not the world.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” she said, amused and not bothering to hide it. “There’s Sherlock. There’s Eurus. Surely, you’re not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>most </span>
  </em>
  <span>bizarre and malformed. So full of yourself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gaped at her. “You—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let us examine what you have just said,” she interrupted. “Starting right there. You have, as a matter of fact, shown yourself to be quite caring and loyal, with a very distinct and solid set of core values from which you have rarely strayed in your life. It doesn't matter, Mycroft, if those values are fundamentally good or fundamentally bad. They are yours and you stick to them. This is not true for everyone, but it is true for you. In some respects, your strict adherence to them, and your - let’s just say it - casual relationship to the more largely accepted ethical and moral mores of our society, are entirely of your own very careful devising. And in others, they are the fault of parents who did not know what to do with you, your brother, or your sister. The fault of a mentor who unfairly involved you in decisions which, quite frankly, he had no business making in the first place. And beside all of this, you have lived a life in which you have been subject to trauma. Repeated, ever-worsening, trauma. Not disappointment, as you have called it before. But traumatic experiences which have gravely affected your understanding of yourself, the people around you, the world, all of it. All of it, Mycroft.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft swallowed hard against a rising lump, a slow closing up of his throat. “I—” He tried to clear it with a cough. “I don’t see how that… has anything to do with…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have come here faithfully, twice a week, for months; taken medication and been honest about its effects; humored me, and done a few exercises here and there; and you have not just lain down to die. Well done. That - all of that - was quite a lot of work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s quite alright to move house,” she said, voice gentling. “It’s alright to slow down at work when you’ve worked nonstop for the past thirty years. And it is more than alright - it is very, very good - to allow new relationships to establish and grow. A hobby was never going to solve your problems, and to be honest with you, your fixation on it is a bit… well. Avoidant is a word I might use.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well—” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft. It’s really all fine.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blew out a breath, stymied. “I—  When will I—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can keep seeing me for as long as you like. Or until I shuffle off, you know, I’m not as young as I once was.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft, startled, laughed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But no, listen to me; I’m here for you. But perhaps only once a week from now on. Yes? Consider it a step up.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded, feeling oddly proud somewhere in the mix of vague panic, disbelief, and the creeping sense that he could become numb again at any moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A step up,” he echoed. “Alright.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>This is the first day of my life</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Swear I was born right in the doorway</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>—  Bright Eyes, “First Day Of My Life” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The house situation rather devolved after that first meeting. Crisanne was trying - in fact, she was doing her job incredibly well. Mycroft didn’t intend to be an extremely picky and difficult buyer, but he couldn’t seem to help it, and the longer it all went on, the more irate he became. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enter Greg, who said over lunch one day a couple of weeks into the search that he’d be more than happy to come along as a second opinion. “Sounds like you’re overwhelmed,” he said. “And I love house hunting, ‘specially when it’s not my budget. So.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft had fallen on the offer immediately, desperate to make the process less miserable, and happy to take any excuse to spend more time with Greg. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg met them on the pavement outside yet another brownstone townhouse with a grin and, without pausing, slipped an arm around Mycroft’s waist, kissed him on the cheek and said, “Hey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It worked like the best whiskey money could buy, melting away the tension in Mycroft’s body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft knew he was flushed to the roots of his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crisanne took to Greg immediately of course, fully grinning as she extended her hand. “You must be the significant other he’s very tight-lipped about.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…” Greg’s hand was warm on Mycroft’s waist. “Yeah, that’s me.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They hadn’t slept together again. Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to do it, and Greg didn’t seem concerned about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were reasons, of course. Mycroft had been dodging his therapist’s questions about intimacy and sex, but hadn’t bothered trying to lie to himself about it. Part of it was lingering shame over his actions after Sherrinford. Part of it was that they often met at the Pall Mall house, and Mycroft didn’t want to do anything significant in that place ever again. He didn’t want anymore memories of it. And still more of it had to do with a simple case of nerves and fear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t ever had sex with someone for whom he had already developed deep feelings, and now he could understand why. It was utterly terrifying. The stakes were higher and, Mycroft could admit, he had been lowering stakes for himself in all directions ever since the events at Sherrinford. It was difficult to take a step in a risky direction, when he had just managed to achieve something vaguely close to his previous level of confidence in his choices. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft wasn’t sure he could take another disappointment. Not now. Not that sleeping with Greg would be that, but Mycroft had the strangest feeling that once they slept together, the relationship would be real and rooted and permanent. Until one of them </span>
  <em>
    <span>died, </span>
  </em>
  <span>possibly. Which he knew all too well could mean days, or a year, or thirty years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He may never come back from grief like that, should he feel it again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that, though his therapist had talked him in circles in order to prove otherwise, made him feel unbearably weak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suffice to say, there was a lot riding on this </span>
  <em>
    <span>working. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re catastrophizing,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she said in the back of his mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mycroft ignored her, because quite frankly he had enough to deal with. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They did kiss. Frequently. Hello, goodbye, and sometimes just for the sake of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another category of kiss took place in the first floor powder room of a house that wasn’t quite right, three houses into the first day of Greg-assisted searching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft let himself be bullied back through the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In there,” Greg whispered urgently, laughing a little. “Before Crisanne comes back down the stairs.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft could hear her heels clicking overhead. She was taking a call in one of the cavernous, wood-floored bedrooms. He estimated another seven minutes to the call, based on the cadence of her steps and the muffled tone of her voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you—” Mycroft subsided into a sigh as the door clicked shut with the weight of Greg’s back against it while at the same time firm hands pulled Mycroft in for the kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg’s hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck wasn’t rough, but it was steady and tight, as if dragging him by the scruff out of the strange mood he always fell into when touring these endless liminal voids that never, ever felt like a home. Greg’s other hand was first at the small of Mycroft’s back, but as the kiss spun out, it moved decisively to his backside and squeezed. Mycroft shivered and moaned softly, unable to hold it back, and pressed closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg broke the kiss and moved his lips along the line of Mycroft’s jaw, guiding his head back and chin up in order to kiss there too. Greg nipped just above the edge of Mycroft’s shirt collar before pulling away and sweeping his thumb over that spot thoughtfully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need to relax,” he said, head tipping back against the door so he could look at Mycroft eye-to-eye. “You’re tense. You’re waiting to hate it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft sagged into Greg’s hold. “This place—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, eh, I don’t like it either.” Greg shrugged. “But you hated it before we </span>
  <em>
    <span>got</span>
  </em>
  <span> here. Same for the last two. You need to let your shoulders come down from around your ears. Do you not want to do this? No one’s going to force you to move, it’s fine if you change your—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft kissed him quiet. “You are incredible,” he murmured. “Thank you for saying that it’s fine - I do know it’s fine. I haven’t changed my mind. I simply… Worry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Worry about?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shrugged. “I… can’t even begin to list it all out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg took both Mycroft’s shoulders under his hands and squeezed. “Try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head. “What are you doing here with me?” He couldn’t seem to draw his eyes away from the floor; the walls. Anywhere but Greg’s sincere, warm-eyed face. “For god’s sake.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Greg said blandly. “I must just be as crazy as you clearly think </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> are.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think there's something wrong with you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> something wrong with me,” Mycroft murmured to the tile wall - that dreadful trendy subway style nonsense. He hated it. “Look at me, I’m—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A person with problems and feelings and fears and bullshit just like the rest of us.” Greg squeezed his shoulders again. “It’s a lot, I know, when you keep yourself locked up like a vault for several decades and then something pries it all open.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was an arsehole when I was married, you know.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft glanced at him. “No, you were not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not to you, but then you only saw me here and there back then. Sometimes to Sherlock, though he probably deserved it. But… I was a bear to work with. Short-fused. Tired all the time. Overdoing it and acting like it made me better than the people on my team who had lives they liked enough to live, instead of throwing themselves at work day in and day out to avoid their own mistakes. I was a complete coward.” Greg laughed, in direct juxtaposition to his words. “I was dead unhappy. So fucking miserable. It’s almost funny looking back on it, because there was no real reason to stay that way. I had just got used to it, is all.” He blew out a long breath. “The divorce happened just before Sherlock… and you and I weren’t around each other much for a while. You missed the mess I was, between the break up and the grieving. Once I didn’t have the excuse of a wife who hated me, I had to… you know. Regrow a personality.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You always had a personality.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I liked you right away, you know.” Greg slipped his hands up, resting them on Mycroft’s face in that way he seemed to like, holding him gently between them and not allowing him to look away. “You were so… you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> so interesting. And… quiet. Not like, the way you speak, but… D’you ever just meet someone and it’s just. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quiet.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Mycroft murmured. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Greg kissed him sweetly, thumbs stroking up over his cheekbones. “So. You find the house that’s like that. But first, relax.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft closes his eyes, processing quickly the shock of warmth that filled him at Greg’s perfect echo of what he himself had told Crisanne weeks ago, and at the way Greg had just inadvertently equated his view of Mycroft as that of being at home. He would return to that detail over and over later, when he could dedicate some time to it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft had absolutely no idea how any of this was working. The state of not knowing was an irritant, but one he was starting to learn to tolerate and maybe even </span>
  <em>
    <span>like. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He didn’t know how, but good god, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> working. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This was oddly relaxing,” he joked weakly. “Being bullied into a powder room and told off.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There was kissing too,” Greg pointed out. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>welcome.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There came a knock at the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we quite finished?” Crisanne called from the other side. “Only there are two  more today, and we should really get a move on.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft fought the urge to cover his face with his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t get all embarrassed,” Greg teased. “She’s cool.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>cool,” Crisanne agreed, apparently able to hear every word. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would be just wonderful,” Mycroft muttered, “if building a life worth living wasn’t so bloody humiliating.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed at him and opened the door, tugging Mycroft through it. “Let’s go, then. Plenty more awkwardness to come. It’ll be fun.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Babysitting again, improbably and yet somehow inevitably. It was glaringly obvious that there were indeed things Rosie was picking up from Sherlock, and one of those things was a sense for how to get straight at Mycroft’s soft spots - and he had so many more of them now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My,” she said adoringly when he walked through the door that evening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft was stunned, and John taunted him with his eyes as he handed her over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yup, go to Mycroft,” he said. “We’ve been showing her photos of everyone she knows and saying their names. She likes yours and Mrs. H. Calls her Ha.” He turned and shouted in the general direction of the downstairs bedroom. “Sherlock! Stop messing about! Let’s go!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft scanned John quickly and smirked. “Ah.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut it,” John warned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was good, this slightly antagonistic friend…-ly banter? -ship? Whatever it was, whatever it could be called, between Mycroft and his brother’s… whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There is far too much ambiguity to life these days,” Mycroft told Rosie very seriously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My!” She smacked him enthusiastically on the forehead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No hitting!” John called from the kitchen. “Mycroft, there’s all sorts in here if she wants to snack. Puree and yogurt. Bottle’s made up in the fridge for bed like last time. Otherwise, water in the sippy cup. She’s killing us with this bottle attachment. Won’t let it go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can manage to find it all,” Mycroft assured him, carrying Rosie toward the doorway. “Fetch Sherlock. Don’t want to cut short date night, now do we?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John scoffed. “And I suppose Lestrade looks like the cat that got the cream because the two of you play </span>
  <em>
    <span>checkers</span>
  </em>
  <span> a lot,” he sniped on his way past. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Mycroft informed him, but smiled at Rosie, who was watching the back and forth as if she had stumbled into a very amusing tennis match. “Your father is absurd.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s the house hunt going?” John asked, absently tidying the lounge - if one could ever consider the lounge in this flat tidy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eternally,” Mycroft sighed. “I don’t think there is a flat in London that I don’t hate violently.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John glanced up, quirking an eyebrow. “Would you leave London?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not yet, he won’t,” Sherlock answered for Mycroft, breezing out of his bedroom with hair that he had undoubtedly spent twenty minutes styling the just the right level of nonchalant messiness. “Lestrade isn’t going to retire any time soon.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Or perhaps I prefer living in London.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock snorted. “No.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you know me so well, Sherlock, tell me - where should I live?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kent, obviously.” Sherlock checked his hair in the mirror over the fireplace, pretending not to. “It’s Mummy and Daddy </span>
  <em>
    <span>adjacent. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You would choose somewhere far enough from Sussex to make any visit involve a rather long drive and therefore discouraging last minute visits, but close enough that, should they need anything as their ages advance, you are not too far away. There’s a lot of countryside </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>seaside </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> boring history. It’s you all over. If you do ever leave London, that is one of your most likely destinations.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes and refused to acknowledge any of the accuracy in that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As for your current house search,” Sherlock continued, “the agent is probably showing you all sorts of tastefully updated Victorians and terraced Regency houses, yes? You already </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> that. You could have gutted that monstrosity five times over in the last twenty years if you wanted a creaky old tower.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“True,” Mycroft conceded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I suppose she hasn’t had you cross a single bridge to view a place.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re suggesting South London?” Mycroft raised his brows. “Really?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock shrugged. “I’m suggesting something completely different.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How not to be seen, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft thought, and nearly chuckled out loud. “Thank you for the advice,” he said placidly. “Enjoy your date night.” He waved Rosie’s hand for her. “Bye now!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft stood at the set of shelves just outside his office door, searching for the right text with which to beat a certain recalcitrant MP into submission (by referencing a precedent Mycroft </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> was written in one of the volumes). He was about to open his mouth to say as much to Anthea, perhaps to fantasize out loud about shoving the correct pages down the foolish man’s throat, when Anthea stood from her desk like a shot, clutching her mobile.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft glanced over. “Problem?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cris texted me!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chris?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Crisanne! The estate agent! Cris, Crisanne! She’s been trying to get hold of you!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft crossed to peer over Anthea’s shoulder, speaking as he went. “I set my mobile to silent. Sherlock was being tedious. What—  oh, Christ.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re offering half again your asking price!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft winced. “They will certainly want me out fast for money like that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep!” Anthea tapped out a rapid text. “Told her to expect your call in a few moments.” She turned to Mycroft, fists in the air, one still clutching her mobile. “An offer on the house!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed helplessly. “You are far more excited than I am.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, get excited!” She shook her arms at him. “Come on, sir! A smile! A real one! Yes! There it is!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> hug me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t dare,” she said, eyes bright. “Alright. Listen - we have the call with Smallwood and bloody Sir Edmund in twenty. Let’s do that and then get out of here for drinks to celebrate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Posh </span>
  </em>
  <span>drinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hotel bar</span>
  </em>
  <span> drinks. Call Greg. I’ll have Cris meet us, too. Hell, call your brother.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You simply want me to buy you overpriced negronis.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right,” she chirped, looking down at her mobile. “Go, office, call her, accept the offer.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who is in charge here?” Mycroft muttered, heading toward his office all the same. “How unbelievably impertinent.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anthea only smiled at him, glancing up briefly from the phone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Congratulations,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she mouthed, and then looked away again, sparing him from any response. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Drinks in the bar of a gorgeous, atmospheric Mayfair hotel with his assistant-stroke-closest-friend, his estate agent, the man he was awkwardly in love with, and - because Sherlock would rather die than do this, and because Mrs. Hudson was out and unavailable to babysit - his brother’s… </span>
  <em>
    <span>blogger. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft sipped his £40 cocktail and marveled at the surreality of it all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg leaned close, warm all along Mycroft’s side. “You alright? Having fun? Not fantasizing about ditching us all to go hide with your knitting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft cast him a sideways glance. “I do not have knitting. I am finishing an item my mother started, returning it to her, and that is all. We have discussed this before.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your mum started over two dozen little trivets?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They are dish cloths,” Mycroft said with as much dignity as he could muster. “No - scratch that - they are a </span>
  <em>
    <span>meditation exercise.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He took a triumphant sip of gin. “Prescribed by a medical professional.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg chuckled and his hand slipped over Mycroft’s knee with familiarity. “All that time fretting over finding a hobby, now you have one and you’re being shifty about it. Typical.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft turned his head toward him. “Forgive me for being contrary and… what is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span> word for it? Fussy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg huffed and shook his head. “I love that you’re contrary and </span>
  <em>
    <span>particular.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He smiled. “No forgiveness for you. None required.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Greg and Crisanne were down in the beautiful, cleverly designed kitchen inside of a stunning house that had once been a Victorian seminary, giving Mycroft a moment to look around before anyone offered their own opinion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second he crossed the threshold into the gabled master bedroom, he knew. This was it. This was his. The window and a pair of doors, forming a giant half-moon on its side, opened out to a roof garden that was currently empty of plants but would look like a tucked-away paradise once filled with them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft would ask his mother for garden advice. He would then hire someone to carry it all out. But she would like it if he asked, and he… he would like it, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father would exclaim over the original woodwork. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The staircase up to the library loft was closed, no gaps for little girls to fall through if they came to visit, or for small dogs to struggle with, if he decided to adopt one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft stood in the watery mid-morning light, taking in the almost tree-house aesthetic of this room carved out in the steepest part of what was once the roof of a sacred place, and felt a bit as though an earthquake had rumbled the ground beneath his feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Here is where you will be this person. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed to himself, disbelieving. It was perfect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He startled, hurrying to the doorway. That shout had not been a request for Mycroft to let Greg know where in the house he had wandered off to. That had been alarm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg bounded up the stairs. “We’ve got to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it? What’s happened?” Mycroft felt himself go instantly cold. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not now, why now? Of </span>
  </em>
  <span>course </span>
  <em>
    <span>now. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everyone’s safe!” Greg practically yelped, apparently reading the fear on his face. “It’s—  bloody Sherlock! And John!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first part didn’t process. Mycroft was still frozen, mind scrambling, and he could already feel himself getting angry at the lingering slowness. Before, he would have read the details in Greg’s tone and his hands and his eyebrows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What is happening?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg flung up his hands, mobile still clutched in one. “They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>getting married! Now!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft nearly rocked back with the force of his surprise, and then came close to collapsing with the relief that flooded him so sharply that every muscle in his body seemed to unclench at once. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The wanker texted me,” Greg continued. “Says we can meet them or not, but they’re doing it. Today.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Married,” Mycroft muttered, already digging his own mobile out of his pocket. It began to ring before he had the chance to unlock it. He barked a laugh and answered. “Doctor Watson. Explain yourself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I texted Greg the address to the register office. Let him drive, he’s an absolute maniac behind the wheel when he needs to be.” John’s voice was knowing, well aware of the upheaval he and Sherlock were causing, but amused about it. “We want you there. He does, but so do I. Okay? So hurry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What on earth are the two of you thinking?” Mycroft asked it without rancor. He was sure that once he had a moment to sit down he would feel something specific about this - happy, perhaps a tiny bit jealous - but for now he was rather stunned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well.” John cleared his throat. “Why wait? Right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft closed his eyes, unable to hold back a smile. “An excellent point.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll come?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft glanced down at his trousers and casual jumper. “We aren’t dressed for—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John barked a laugh. “Neither am I. He’s suited up as always. I went so far as to put on a clean shirt rather than wear the one Rosie ruined at breakfast. She’s the most done up of the three of us. And Mrs Hudson is downstairs trying to unearth a specific hat. It’s all a mess, Mycroft. Just come.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft glanced at Greg. “We’re leaving now,” he said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On his way out the door, Greg frantically explaining things to Crisanne and the confused sellers’ agent, Mycroft said, “I want it. Make the offer. As much as they want.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crisanne glared daggers at him as the sellers’ agent began to smile. “Mr Holmes—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he said, and tugged Greg out the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course they’d do this when we’re practically all the way in bloody Brixton,” Greg grumbled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> Brixton,” Mycroft said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed. “Hey, now. I’ve lived in Brixton. There’s lots of culture there, you know. Don’t be a snob.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft surprised himself, reaching over to place a hand on Greg’s knee as they pulled away from the kerb. “Thank you for all of this.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg grinned at him sideways. “Hey, don’t panic, but just so y’know, I love you. I would’ve toured a hundred more houses with you, and we could’ve had to rush out to see your idiotic brother get married in the middle of the night and I would’ve done it. Happily.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft stared at him, stunned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg’s grin softened into a sweeter version of itself. “I love you,” he said again, quietly this time. “You can put your head between your knees if you need a moment.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed, startling out of his frozen state. “You are terrible. I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>panicking, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m—” he breathed for a moment. “Unutterably happy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg’s hand covered his, threading their fingers together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s therapist laughed and laughed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My life is completely out of control,” he sighed, not bothering to pretend to dislike that fact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps,” she said. “But is it a good life?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t need to pause to think. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a very good life.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re due to travel, yes?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded. “My first overseas trip since… all of it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nervous? Worried?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” He meant it; it was the truth. “Not at all. The movers are transferring most of my things while I’m away, so I will be arriving to a new home and won’t have had to interact with teams of strangers carrying my life from one place to the next. And it will be good, spending time in Tokyo. I have friends there. I’ve always loved the food. I’m looking forward to it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” she said. “That’s fantastic.” She sighed, evidently satisfied. “So, as we come to the end of our time today, I thought we might set a new goal to work toward. Thoughts?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft wasn’t surprised to be asked, but he rather thought that the remaining issue was obvious. “Do you not think we should discuss Eurus, at some point?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have discussed Eurus.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He huffed. “You know to what I’m referring.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherrinford?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherrinford.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that what you feel you need to address? Do you feel ready to discuss that event in detail?” She held up her open palms. “Not a trick question. There is no road map which says we </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> pick apart what happened on the island, or that we must do it now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft gave this a moment’s thought. “I find my mind drifting to those memories, lately,” He said. “Not… I don’t find it distressing simply to think of it. But I don’t know that my understanding of it is accurate. And I do still have occasional dreams. Nightmares. I wonder if perhaps my avoiding talking about it has caused it to stick, so to speak.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Possibly.” She nodded. “Well, alright. Let’s discuss that when you return from Japan, and see where it takes us. In the meantime… You have done very well in pursuing a deeper understanding of </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself </span>
  </em>
  <span>in our discussions.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… thank you.” Mycroft shifted in his seat, unaccountably uncomfortable with the praise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiled. “You are welcome. It has been a pleasure getting to know you, Mycroft.” She leaned forward and extended her hand. “I hope you have a lovely trip, and I’ll see you in a few weeks.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took her hand and shook it. “I look forward to it, Dr Peel.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There were things Mycroft had forgotten, which he had been assured many times was perfectly normal, even for one of the most intelligent men in Britain. But there were far more things that he remembered, and lately he had realized that most of them were good. Not all, but most.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The births of his sister and brother. The way their faces had looked to him, tiny and wrinkled and red. The way it felt to know that he was their protector and teacher. The way his father was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tall, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and when Mycroft sat on his shoulders, he was very tall too. The way Eurus’ hair had been silky and straight, unlike Mycroft’s thick wavy tangles or Sherlock’s voluminous curls, when Mycroft ran his fingers through it to straighten it before Christmas Eve church services. The smell of rain through his bedroom window at Musgrave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His memories, as far as he had ever been able to determine, stretched back to the year he turned three. There were some holes in his recollection, and their relevance to certain upsetting or - and he hated the word, but he was told he should use it more often - traumatising events was glaringly obvious. He remembered the events with crystal clarity, of course. The pincushion. Sherlock’s red, tear-streaked face the day he seemed to realize his best friend was never returning. The blankness in his eyes when he tilted his head to the side and said, “You mean Redbeard?” The first body Mycroft ever saw. The time he had been stabbed in the thigh in a field op gone wrong. The words ‘Andrew is dead.’ He could recall those very specifically, in technicolor, with phantom scents and temperatures, all of it terrible and sickening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But around these dark voids inside which those memories lived were blank spots of sacrificed information. He amused himself by likening it to redirecting power, cutting the lights to those memories in order to brighten others. He was slowly learning to siphon power away from the voids, lending it to what he wished to see more clearly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He missed those blank spaces. Exact conversations he had been privy to at Uncle Rudy’s glamorous dinner parties. The last thing Andrew said to him before getting into the car to drive up to Manchester. What the hell Mycroft had said in his thesis defense. These were all missing. And he believed wholeheartedly that he would never find them again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock called it deleting, but Mycroft felt distinctly as though he had been robbed.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One had to move forward, unless they planned to lie down and simply let the world pass them by. Unless one intended to curl up and die, the only way was through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mycroft was going to move forward. One bright memory after the other. And no more blanks; no more voids. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The "how not to be seen" line in the scene with Sherlock is a riff on Sherlock saying Mycroft should look for "something completely different" - a reference to the Monty Python sketch And Now For Something Completely Different. </p>
<p>Is Mycroft's agent-turned-doctor-and-therapist an aged-like-fine-wine, bad ass and unimpressed Diana Rigg as Emma Peel? IDK, what do you think?</p>
<p>And finally, most importantly, this is your reminder from me and Mycroft Holmes, that if you're going through hell - keep going.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Don't you be afraid of love and affection<br/>Just lay down your weapon</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>--MUNA, "I Know A Place"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft took a full day after returning from Tokyo to sleep and to unpack and move his new furniture around to his liking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time the Saturday after rolled around, he had a bedroom that looked like a bedroom and not a storage space, and somewhere to sit and read. There were even some books on the shelves in the loft library, and roughly half a lounge’s worth of seating options. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it,” Greg said on the phone that morning. “I missed you like mad, and I don’t care what the house looks like. Is there a sofa? A bed? A soft bit of floor I can tackle you onto?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft flushed, the burn suffusing his face and flooding down his neck. “You have designs on my virtue?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha.” Greg paused. “Well, I always have. Obviously we don’t have to—  sorry, I was just joking.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hummed, noncommittal, even as his mind raced, pieces of some puzzle he’d been trying to put together for months finally clicking into place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll see you at six,” Greg said. “Okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “Alright. Six.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Love you,” Greg said in that offhanded, devastating way he had begun to do just before Mycroft’s trip, and hung up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft was more anxious than he had any right to be. Greg was well aware that he had only barely moved into the new house; he wasn’t going to judge the small stacks of boxes here and there. Mycroft had tasked the movers and furniture delivery with the large pieces. His personal effects he wished to deal with himself, and he defined anything from toiletries to books as personal effects. He also hadn’t brought much over from the old house, choosing instead to store much of the antique furniture until he could have it dealt with. Donated or auctioned away. Whatever needed to happen. This meant that, even considering it was less than half unpacked, the house was light on personal touches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft had only vague ideas of what he wanted to do with the place. What he might display on shelves and hang on walls. Choosing new furniture and the colors of the drapes and bedding had been all he could manage before his trip. The rest would have to be done gradually. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the hour before Greg arrived that night, Mycroft paced the length of the first floor several times too many, vaguely fretful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it,” he told himself, and then winced. Even at the worst of his exile to the Pall Mall house after Sherrinford, he hadn’t stooped so low as to start talking to himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He forced himself into the kitchen, where he opened a bottle of wine and left it to breathe, then drew down two glasses from the cabinet. They would order dinner, since the fridge wasn’t stocked beyond basics. Greg had checked when the sale was being finalized, and gleefully reported that there were several restaurants with fantastic reviews offering takeaway within walking or delivery distance from the new house. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hadn’t cared, when he decided to buy the place, about things like that. But in retrospect, he should have. It wasn’t as if he could live on scrambled eggs and roast chicken alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was startled out of his thoughts by the ring of the bell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft let himself out through the kitchen into a little cobblestone courtyard, crossing to the gate set within a brick arch. “Password,” he said, then bit back a smile at Greg’s delighted expression. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, hell,” he said, playing along. “I seem to’ve forgotten the password.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll have to pay to enter, then,” Mycroft said, already opening the gate with his thumbprint and holding it open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fair enough,” Greg said. “The usual toll?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That will do.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg paused and pressed his lips sweetly to Mycroft’s. “Admittance paid?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm.” Mycroft kissed him one more time. “Now it is.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg held up his hand, until that moment tucked half behind his back. “Seemed appropriate to bring something pretty for the new place.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft took the bunch of flowers, wrapped with brown paper and tied with twine, made up of blooms in muted shades and soft green foliage to fill it out. “These are lovely.” He touched a petal carefully. “I believe this is the first time I have ever been given flowers.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg grinned. “Good,” he said. “A bloke likes to be the first, on occasion.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s cheeks heated. “Ah… indeed.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg took pity on him, his hand stroking gently over Mycroft’s arm. “Alright. Give me the tour?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft turned and led the way through to the kitchen entrance. “You have seen it before.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but it wasn’t yours then.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shut the door behind them and went about looking for something in which to put the flowers. He had no idea where things like vases might be packed, but he found a glass pitcher he remembered unpacking with the kitchen things. It would work. In fact, it was rather complimentary to the rustic arrangement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn't quite feel like mine yet,” he said over the running sink. “I’m afraid it’s fairly empty. Sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How dare you fail to unpack your entire life in one day,” Greg deadpanned, eyes scanning over the contents of the kitchen. “This room looks well set up, though.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well.” Mycroft turned to focus on rearranging the bouquet in the pitcher, conveniently hiding his face. “I thought I might prioritize cooking. Perhaps you could teach me to make something again.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg eased up behind, his hands slipping gently around Mycroft’s waist. “Or I can come and cook for you. Let you laze around, put your feet up. Feed you and pour wine down you and give you a shoulder rub. Because you can just have me over for that sort of thing, you know. No excuse required.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shivered. “Oh.” He felt Greg’s mouth press to his shoulder, a kiss through the thin fabric of his shirt. “That sounds… wonderful.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg kissed him again, just behind his ear. “Good.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s hands shook. He pressed them to the worktop to still them. “Greg.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you hungry?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not terribly.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft turned around, and for a moment he remembered very clearly that he had stood this way, Greg’s hands on him, eyes warm and wide, in his old kitchen. He remembered the way he’d felt desperate and terrible and needy, and had dropped to his knees right there beside the worktop. He blinked, and saw that this time, there was no concern in Greg’s face. This time, there was just knowing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not in the kitchen this time,” Greg said, a gentle tease in his voice. “Let me take you up to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft nodded, swallowing hard. “I—  we don’t have to—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, believe me,” Greg said seriously. “I’d wait decades for you to be ready. But if the moment is now, we absolutely do </span>
  <em>
    <span>have to.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed. Just like that, it was easy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Greg nearly took them both to the ground in his eagerness to move toward the bed, and as he laughed through the trip and stumble, so did Mycroft. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steady,” Greg said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> steady,” Mycroft protested, hanging onto Greg’s shoulders. “Let’s not fracture any bones.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed and kissed him, one hand steady on the back of Mycroft’s head, the other arm wrapped tightly around him and squeezing. Mycroft squeezed back, arms going around the shoulders he had used to steady himself, and for a moment it was nothing but simple joy - kissing instead of laughing, or as a way of laughing at themselves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then it very quickly softened and went hot. Mycroft dug his fingers into Greg’s hair, letting his mouth fall open, inviting Greg to take it over - which he did, immediately. Greg groaned, one hand already untucking Mycroft’s shirt. His hand was warm and rough on the soft skin at the base of Mycroft’s back, pressing firmly to bring their bodies flush. Mycroft gasped and pushed his hips up and forward. Greg’s hand moved down to his backside and squeezed, encouraging him to roll against Greg again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg kissed down the side of Mycroft’s throat until he encountered his collar, where he sighed against the skin before nuzzling gently back up with his nose, seeming to breathe in the scent of Mycroft’s cologne. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you,” Greg murmured against Mycroft’s ear. “You know? I love you so much, and I want… I want to make it so good for you, darling, so good.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft practically swooned, which he would bother to be embarrassed about if those words hadn’t taken him so completely out of his head and away from such silly earthly things as </span>
  <em>
    <span>shame</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Greg.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg leaned away hands against Mycroft’s face now. “You’re so…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head and reached for the buttons of Greg’s shirt. He couldn’t begin to say what he was thinking; what he wanted. Greg’s thumbs swept soothingly over his cheeks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Greg said. “Yeah, okay. Tell me what you want. What you like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed. “You can’t be serious.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re much better at talking these days,” Greg teased. “You can do it. Tell me.” He nipped a kiss at Mycroft’s lower lip. “Come on.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shuddered, his fingers stilling halfway down the line of shirt buttons. He leaned in and followed Greg’s mouth, trying to catch him in a deeper kiss. Greg moved away, luring him forward, mouth curving into a sly smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me,” he said again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just.” Mycroft let his eyes fall shut. “Just you. Just touch me. Please.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg blew out a breath. “If you only knew what you look like; what hearing you say that does to me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shook his head - or, he tried, but Greg held him still. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg kissed him once more, slow and exploratory, his tongue stroking smoothly against Mycroft’s, and he let go of Mycroft’s face to work on his shirt buttons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In no time at all they were both down to their underwear and Mycroft was beginning to lose track of himself. He was torn between wanting to throw himself across the bed and drag Greg on top of himself so they could simply rut until it was over, so desperate for it that he didn’t care how it happened. And also wanting very badly to do everything - </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything - </span>
  </em>
  <span>as slowly and thoroughly as possible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg solved the frantic indecision by pressing Mycroft gently down into the pillows and straddling his hips. Mycroft eyed the line of Greg’s erection and tried not to look too eager. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg swept his hands up and over Mycroft’s chest, fingers sifting through the fine hairs and then teasing gently over his nipples. Mycroft swallowed a whimper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sensitive?” Greg checked, and did it again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg grinned down at him. “Good to know.” He leaned down and kissed Mycroft deep and filthy, slow and liquid in every motion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shuddered and shifted, seeking more contact, more friction, more of anything. He held Greg close, arms around his back, and wriggled his hips until Greg shifted with him, lying more fully on top of him and allowing Mycroft’s open thighs to cradle his own hips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus,” Greg whispered. “I feel like a teenager. I could just do this and be happy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed quietly. “I thought that, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You feel so good.” Greg nudged the tip of his nose against Mycroft’s. “You’re so lovely.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop,” Mycroft protested, cheeks hot. It was completely ridiculous, Greg saying such things to Mycroft. Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking </span>
  </em>
  <span>at Greg was enough to make its absurdity apparent. But to imagine someone so patient and intrinsically good, thinking—  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t stop,” Greg replied, lips sweet against Mycroft’s cheek, and then his jaw. One of his hands scritched soothing over Mycroft’s scalp, then threaded through his hair to tip his head back, giving himself access to Mycroft’s throat. “Gonna be so sweet to you that you explode. Make you turn so pink you get stuck that way.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft shook with laughter, the momentary uncertainty evaporating. “Are you a secret sadist?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> call that sadism,” Greg teased. “How dare I adore you, huh? What a dick move.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft pulled him into another kiss, hoping his teeth and lips and tongue could say what he couldn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg rocked against him, hot ridge of his cock snug against Mycroft’s own through nothing more than two thin layers of fabric. Mycroft squeezed him with his thighs and tried to move with him, searching for rhythm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg slipped down his body, seeming intent on kissing every bit of skin he passed on his way down, and Mycroft was happy to let him, gooseflesh springing up over his arms, his belly, his thighs. He could remember this from last time - Greg exploring his skin and finding places Mycrof thad forgotten were sensitive. But now Mycroft was actually paying attention - recording the way it felt, remembering the exact pressure and heat of Greg’s mouth, the precise curl of his tongue over Mycroft’s left nipple. And then, even as he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, the particular motion of Greg’s teeth worrying at it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg’s fingers slipped under the waistband of Mycroft’s underwear, pushing them down his thighs. He sat up between Mycroft’s spread feet to tug them down and off, tossing them aside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Greg muttered. “You have to understand… this—” He passed his fingertips whisper-light over the underside of Mycroft’s hard, flushed cock. “I’ve thought about this a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh?” Mycroft arched, hips coming off the bed to seek out the touch of Greg’s hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s so nice,” Greg murmured, then leaned down, pressing his lips to the crown in a careful, almost chaste, kiss. “Maybe the nicest I’ve ever seen.” He nuzzled at Mycroft, stubble a little rough on the soft skin inside his thigh. “And I barely got to put my mouth on it last time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft pet absently at Greg’s hair, focused mainly on holding his hips still and not begging for Greg to do so immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that last time was so…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We agreed to strike it from the record,” Greg murmured. “I didn’t mean that. I just. Really—” He kissed aimlessly over Mycroft’s thighs. “Really—” he wrapped his fingers gently around Mycroft’s shaft and stroked carefully. “Want—” He teased his lips, featherlight, over the places his fingers didn’t cover. “To…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For god’s sake,” Mycroft breathed. “I don’t remember you being such an unbearable tease.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed and nipped Mycroft’s hipbone, then used his hand to guide Mycroft’s cock into his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft half-shouted on an exhale, a cut-off ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>ha!’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>leaving his chest in his surprise. “Oh—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg hummed and sucked him, tongue wicked and swirling, hand moving in counterpoint. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, god.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmhmm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft propped himself up on one elbow to watch, stunned at the obscene beauty in those lips stretched around him, those dark lashes sweeping across sun-tanned cheeks before Greg’s eyes fluttered open to look at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>God, he really does love me,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mycroft thought, breath knocked out of him at everything in that hot gaze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Greg.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg’s lips left him with a pop. “Sweetheart,” he replied, then licked, eyes trained on Mycroft’s, from the root to the tip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God,” Mycroft whispered. “Come here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg allowed Mycroft to tug at him, but did most of the work, crawling back up the length of Mycroft’s body, tongue sliding up against Mycroft’s to share the taste of him. Mycroft reached down and shoved at Greg’s underwear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Off,” he muttered. “Please, take them off.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg smirked and did it, shifting and moving away for a moment, but returning naked, completely bared at last. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s nerves had him shaking, hopefully not too noticeably. But his legs felt like jelly, like they weren’t his own, when he spread them for Greg again, wanting the closeness again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They kissed and touched, hands in hair and clasping each other. Greg rolled them onto their sides, his forehead tipped down against Mycroft’s shoulder to watch himself stroking him teasingly slowly, Mycroft’s fingers twisted in Greg’s hair as he writhed against the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tease,” he gasped again, and Greg laughed against his skin and tightened his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Too dry to go faster.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft reached for the nightstand, but found he couldn’t get into the drawer from his angle. “Could you—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg opened the drawer and chuckled. “I see you unpacked the most important things.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Obviously.” Mycroft held out his hand for the small bottle of lube. He squeezed some into his palm and then slicked his hand over Greg’s length, briefly and lightly. Greg grunted in the back of his throat, hips hitching forward. Mycroft took his hand away to spread the rest over himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Genius,” Greg murmured, taking hold of Mycroft’s cock as Mycroft took hold of his again, and they stroked together. “Oh, yeah, that’s—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kiss me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg kissed him, wet and deep, and thrust into the circle of Mycroft’s fingers, matching the rhythm of his hips with that of his hand, twisting his wrist as he worked Mycroft over with an expert blend of teasing and overwhelming sensation - soft, soft, then fast and hard, then gentle, careful, then brutal and unyielding, until Mycroft needed to catch his wrist, hold it still for a moment to catch his breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hauled Greg down, their fists side by side, and bodies working together to rut into them. Greg gasped against Mycroft’s lips and tugged at his hair with his free hand. “M’gonna come like this.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Mycroft whispered. “Please, please—” He was desperate to be closer. He hooked his leg over one of Greg’s, wishing he could get more leverage to roll his hips up into the slick grip of Greg’s hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll—” Greg cut himself off with a grunt. “Fuck, Mycroft, I can’t believe—  I want to be in you so bad, I wanted it before but I couldn’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft vaguely remembered offering Greg penetrative sex if he wanted it. He was glad, in retrospect, that Greg hadn’t taken it. He wanted to remember that. He wanted to feel that and </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> that. Preferably tonight, once they recovered from this. He almost laughed out loud at that thought - the nerve of him, already wanting more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was greedy and wanton and it felt better than anything had, ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Focus,” Mycroft teased, shaking with sensation overload that threatened to become tears or uncontrollable giggles or spontaneous combustion at any moment. “I’m bringing you off now, in case you’ve forgotten.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed brightly into Mycroft’s neck, then leaned up again, kissing him exuberantly. “Cheeky.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but all he could manage was sound, squeezed from his throat, as Greg did something with his wrist, twisting over Mycroft in just the right way. “I—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, come on. Come on sweetheart.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s hips moved, chasing the fizz of impending orgasm, his slippery hand clinging to Greg’s bicep, unable to keep up the tandem motion of two hands when Greg was pressing so close, was taking Mycroft apart so skillfully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg sucked hard at the sensitive patch of skin just below Mycroft’s ear. “Give it to me, Mycroft, let go for me. I want to see you. I love you, I’ve got you, I—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s eyes slammed shut and his body drew tight, curling towards Greg’s on instinct, his face pressed to the sweat-salty crook of Greg’s shoulder. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re perfect,” Greg murmured in his ear as he stroked Mycroft through it, gently squeezing and milking every last drop, every last twitch, even as his mouth brushed soothingly over Mycroft’s closed eyes. “That’s so beautiful, baby, look at you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed, strangled, and flung his arm around Greg’s shoulders to keep him close, irrationally afraid he would move away. His lube-slick hand couldn’t find purchase on Greg’s skin. He couldn’t remember ever laughing this much in bed, and certainly not while he was still shaking with the aftershocks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t think I’ve ever given such an exciting handjob before,” Greg teased. “You’re amazing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I rather abandoned you,” Mycroft murmured against Greg’s skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’ll keep,” Greg said gently, and eased Mycroft back down onto the pillows. “Relax. Did you unpack flannels and towels?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t go,” Mycroft pleaded. “Please.” He reached for Greg. “I want to… please, come here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg let Mycroft draw him close again. Let him kiss him - shaky, without finesse, with his clean hand running through his hair. Mycroft got his hand around him again, and Greg hissed at the first stroke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your </span>
  <em>
    <span>fingers,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Greg sighed, glancing down between them. “Jesus.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hiccuped a laugh. “Thank you.” He squeezed, and Greg’s hips shoved forward. “I rather like yours, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Greg said, then laughed weakly. His lips glanced off of Mycrofts in an attempt at a kiss that was interrupted by a gasp. “Mycroft—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft didn’t have the gift Greg did for murmuring unbearably sexy encouragement, but he attempted to make up for that with his hands, with his thigh flung over Greg’s to hold him down, and his mouth on Greg’s throat, right at the sweet, sensitive place that made the man twitch hard with his entire body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waited until Greg’s sounds were pitched higher, the movement of his hips growing erratic, and then shoved, not too hard, to knock the man on to his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wha—  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, christ—” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft swept his tongue over the swollen head of Greg’s cock, slid his mouth down the length once, and then caught the bitter release on his tongue before he could manage another. Greg’s fingers did not twist in Mycroft’s hair or attempt to move his head down again. They trembled against Mycroft’s face, tracing over he brow and temples, and when Mycroft looked up, gently stroking Greg through the last of it, Greg’s eyes looked down at him in undisguised amazement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft looked away from it only to save his heart from swelling out of his chest, and pressed his face to Greg’s hip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought, and knew he wasn’t expected to say it out loud. That was good, because while he wanted badly to say it then and there, it remained stuck in his throat. He kissed Greg’s skin and breathed. It would happen eventually. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was practically a case study in that - things working out in the end, if only one is willing to help it along. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft was willing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They traded bites of dumplings and noodles, cartons spread out on the bedroom floor where they sat freshly showered and only half-dressed in the wreckage of the blankets they had mussed and knocked part of the way to the floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you really not remember our first kiss?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took Mycroft a moment to understand; to remember Greg telling him last year that something had happened between them, that ill-fated night with the drinks just after Sherlock’s return from the dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft winced. “I’m so sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You really have nothing to apologize for,” Greg said. “It’s just that it was so bad.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s face must have done something highly amusing; Greg practically cackled, hand flying up to stifle it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he said. “But it was. It was really bad. We were both so drunk. I don’t know what we were thinking.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft bit the inside of his lip, fighting a smile and losing the battle. “I was probably thinking: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And little else.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg snorted. “I was so angry with you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, you were.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But only… not </span>
  <em>
    <span>really. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I did understand why you did it. Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> did it. Went away like that.” Greg sighed. “I think I just wished I felt closer to either one of you. It seemed so unbelievable that he would fake his death, of all things, for me. Not just for me, obviously, but I couldn’t imagine why Moriarty would threaten him with </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> safety.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock, in his way, cares for you.” Mycroft chuckled, digging for another prawn in the nearest takeaway carton. “It made me so very jealous when I first met you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t know that then,” Mycroft said, and Greg opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly sympathetic. “Don’t be comforting, it’s quite alright.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyway,” Greg sighed. “He’d kind of met his soulmate and thrown me over, so. And I’d been trying to be… friendly? Friendly seems like the least pathetic way to put it. I was trying to be friendly with you for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’d thought I was getting somewhere, too. And then Sherlock died and I never saw you again, until he un-died, and… I was a bit pissed off at you, but mostly I’d missed you, and I’d missed him, and I was—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were very, very forgiving at the time,” Mycroft interrupted. “I hope this isn’t an attempt to apologize for being rightfully angry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Greg said. “I think I’m trying to tell you I wanted to kiss you even when I was furious with you, but also that I’m really glad you don’t remember, because it was probably my worst performance ever.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Likewise,” Mycroft said pointedly, “regarding the time after that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg snorted. “Well. We got there eventually.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled at him, fingers fiddling with his chopsticks. “Yes,” He said. “We did.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think they’re ‘saying,’?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft heard John whispering to Greg but did not look away from Sherlock’s narrowed gaze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucked if I know,” Greg muttered back. “We could leave them here. Go for a pint.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And leave Rosie with the glare-off?” John snorted. “Don’t think so.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked away from Sherlock for a moment. “Rosamund is quite content playing with her trains,” he said. “And I am more than capable of minding her, even while my brother is behaving like a child, himself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At her name, Rosie perked up, head swinging around. “Ro?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Mycroft said to her. “You. We’re discussing you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My,” she admonished, standing and wobbling a bit on her way up. She made her way to his chair, a wooden train still clutched in her hand. She babbled as she walked, telling Mycroft off about who knew what. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He allowed her to climb into his lap, his hand hooked under one armpit to help her up. He waited for her to settle, toy train half in her mouth, staring across the coffee table at Sherlock, then turned his own gaze back to his brother as well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He twisted his mouth to one side: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just. Take. The money. You idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock blinked once, slowly: </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, again. I don’t want it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft glanced down at his left cuff, flicking away an imaginary bit of lint: </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s your money. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock: </span>
  <em>
    <span>And I don’t need it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You have a child, now. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>John has a child. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You had better address that, brother, or this will get very messy. She is yours, if not legally. I can have the paperwork drawn up today. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stop it. Don’t you dare. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Then talk to John. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stay out of it, Mycroft. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Take the money.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p><em>NO.</em> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked away again, focusing instead on the curly top of Rosie’s head. He stroked his hand gently over the wisps of hair, getting thicker now, losing some of its baby fineness. Rosie looked up at the touch and grinned, showing him her tiny baby teeth and wrinkling her nose at him. Mycroft smiled back, and tickled his fingers against her cheek to make her smile more widely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked back up at Sherlock and shrugged helplessly. “Then I’ll give the money to her,” he said out loud. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Will you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A trust fund. She can have it when she goes to University. Or whenever Dr Watson thinks is most reasonable.” Mycroft glanced to the kitchen doorway, where Greg and John had stood to observe the silent argument. It was empty. “Where did they go?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The pub, I assume,” Sherlock drawled. “Fine. Give the money to Rosie. That’s good. I like that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft huffed. “I thought you might.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock stood with a dramatic sigh. “Thank you for hearing me out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft snorted. “You are very welcome,” he said, a touch snottily. Then, to Rosie, “I think this calls for a walk in the park. You’re going to be a bit wealthy, you know. Isn’t that exciting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How much money could you </span>
  <em>
    <span>possibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> have made from the sale?” Sherlock demanded. “And how much could be left after you bought that hipster nunnery?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is a former seminary,” Mycroft corrected blandly as he stood. “And there was more money still from the furniture I sent to auction. Furthermore, I’m sorry to break it to you Sherlock, but there won’t be anymore children. She isn’t genetically related, and thank god for that, but she is... ours, now. Now that you and John have gone and made it official, that is simply how it is. Mummy and Daddy will leave her everything, you must know that. And I have other money. Investments, property, et cetera, et cetera. Who am I meant to leave it to?” He handed Rosie over. “Change her, she’s wet. And then we’re going to the park.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock glanced between the baby and Mycroft, clearly processing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You love her,” he said after a moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed quietly and turned away, not quite up to saying this face to face. “And you, shockingly enough. Chop chop, Sherlock. I don’t change diapers when it isn’t strictly required. Change her, and we will take her to the park. I will text Greg and John to meet us there. We could even go for lunch. A pleasant and exceedingly normal family activity.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This life gets stranger with every passing second, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought, while a mildly stunned Sherlock wandered off in search of diapers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Double update today &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>An epilogue, shifting to Greg's POV. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Greg moved into the old seminary - which Sherlock insisted on calling The Nunnery, and unfortunately they had all (including Mycroft) picked up the habit - the week before their first Christmas together. He hadn’t even unpacked all of his things before it was time to gather up luggage and make the trip out to Sussex for a Holmesian Christmas. He stared at the pile of laundry he was folding and couldn’t shake the anxious itch of nerves at the very edges of his brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“All</span>
  </em>
  <span> the gifts got sent ahead?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft, sorting through cufflinks in a dish on top of his dresser, nodded absently. “Mm. In the car with Anthea this morning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Including the—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The beer brewing kit for my father, yes.” Mycroft glanced up. “It’s all taken care of. What is this about? Are you nervous? You know that my parents like you very much. My mother likes you more than she likes </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I flirt with her,” Greg replied, grinning. “It’s not your fault you’re her son. I have more opportunities for outright flattery.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft rolled his eyes and returned to his task. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see why you need cufflinks to go to your mum and dad’s,” Greg said, for want of a topic that would distract him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t see why one should not wear brown shoes with a black belt. Forgive me if I do not go blue in the face explaining this yet again.” Mycroft softened his words - not meant as a real jab - with a kiss on his way to drop the cufflinks he’d chosen into his travel case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg thought it was hilarious when Mycroft complained about his wardrobe, and it instantly relaxed him. It didn’t matter if Mycroft </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>deduced his Christmas gift. Greg was pretty sure he hadn’t. If he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> noticed the absence of a box for himself, he might not have proceeded to think through what it might be. Greg needed to get it together and relax, or he’d raise suspicions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Anyway,” Mycroft continued, “there is nothing to be nervous about.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmhm.” Greg turned away to fold a pair of jeans into his duffle bag. “I know.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Siger Holmes had called Greg in November with the happy news: Mr Pruitt down the lane’s dog had got in the family way, quite ruining the plans of her owners, who had planned to produce a litter of purebred poodles the following Spring. It was a marvelous local scandal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The corgi from the next farm over, if you can believe,” Daddy Holmes chuckled. “I’ve no idea how that worked, logistically, but, here we are. There are eight puppies. Very curly, very short. A little bird told me you might be in the market for one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea. It had to have been Anthea. Thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>god </span>
  </em>
  <span>for Anthea. Greg had instantly agreed, asking for the Pruitts’ number and calling to claim a dog that very afternoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mycroft was presented with the puppy, a girl with a pale lavender collar and two half-droopy triangular ears surrounded by the most ridiculous fluffy waves of fur, he pretended, almost convincingly, not to be weeping. The dog didn’t leave his lap once for the entirety of the Christmas weekend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg patted himself on the back for all of thirty seconds before he realized he would never top that gift. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Greg woke when Mycroft did - every time. He wasn’t sure what it was that did it. Mycroft wasn’t loud in his nightmares, and he didn’t thrash. He tensed. His breath changed. Greg had never been a light sleeper before, but he always woke when Mycroft had a nightmare. Sometimes he was able to soothe him without even waking him. Others, he opened his eyes just in time for Mycroft to open his with a gasp. Those nights, he got up with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t night, this time. It was close to morning, the sky outside the giant half-moon windows already a bit pink. Greg woke as Mycroft sat up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweetheart,” he murmured, reaching to stroke a hand down one bare arm. “C’mere, I’ll cuddle you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sleep,” Mycroft whispered, already getting out of bed. “I’m not going to be able to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M’not going back to sleep.” Greg sat up with a groan, which alerted the dog. “You okay?” he asked, even as he was accepting his morning slobbers. “Ant, please,” he murmured, gently wrestling her - still puppy-enthusiastic at six months old. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just—” Mycroft flicked his fingers vaguely, shoving that hand into the arm of his dressing gown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Greg agreed, understanding that some things couldn’t be explained. Whether Mycroft re-lived his time trapped in his sister’s cell or dreamt of his short-lived career as a spy, or any of the number of things that would be awful to see in your sleep, it threw his body into a panic sometimes before he could wake himself, or before Greg could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed. “And please don’t call her </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ant,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said, and headed into the bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Antigone is not a name you can shout across the dog park.” Also, Ant was funny and suited their tiny dog just fine. Greg would never agree that such a serious name fit such a cute little creature. A nickname was absolutely necessary. Greg swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. “Coffee,” he called. “And take one of those pills, you, or I’ll tell Anthea.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m taking the pill,” Mycroft said, barely snappish this early in the morning, and from the en suite the rattle of the bottle punctuated his words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty minutes later they were tucked into the window seat in the loft, Mycroft’s favorite spot in the entire house. Outside the window, crowded rooftops and the distant shapes of central London were starting to come out of the misty gloom of night-to-morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t had a bad dream in a while,” Greg remarked softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s probably the stress related to the Egypt trip. Security is a nightmare in and of itself. No wonder all my sleeping mind can think of is a lack of it.” Mycroft took a long sip of his coffee. “This is good. You are a magician with that machine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just drip coffee,” Greg teased, nudging Mycroft with his foot. “You just like any coffee you didn’t have to make.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft tipped his head in unrepentant agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would tell me if you were feeling really bad, right?” Greg set his coffee aside and leaned forward to place his hands on Mycroft’s bent knees. “I’d want to know. Need to know. So I can help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiled. “I would tell you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg nodded. “Good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They lapsed into quiet. There wasn’t much need to rehash all of the events and hurts and fears that could crowd up on Mycroft from time to time. Greg had heard about many of them, slowly, over the last year. He could try to guess what specific thing had Mycroft waking mid-panic attack, but it didn’t particularly matter. The treatment was the same, regardless of the cause. Coffee, closeness, quiet, and patience. An anti-anxiety pill. Sometimes, a well-timed reminder that Mycroft was alive and human and wanted - in the form of sex, the most fun kind, the kind that knocked things off the bedside tables. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t always that easy. Mycroft tended to cover uncertainty and self-consciousness with things like control and disdain. That was getting better. Greg wouldn’t stand for it; wouldn’t put up with living with this version of Sherlock’s congenital penchant for stinging barbs. And Mycroft, whether he remembered it all of the time or didn’t, had grown out of being the sort of man who didn’t default to nastiness when he felt out of his depth. Greg was pretty sure that the habit of arranging things would be hard to break, if it was breakable at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But who could complain, when Mycroft’s current version of ‘arranging things’ meant Rosie Watson got a new wardrobe for no reason, or Greg’s car was serviced while he was at work, none the wiser. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg watched Mycroft watching the sky change, and marveled at how good he looked all mussed-up in the morning. How clear his eyes were - they always were, so sharp and knowing, taking in everything, sometimes terrifying in that way - and how the lines of his body relaxed into the corner of the window seat, how his legs tangled with Greg’s. Like the house and Greg were holding him there together. Like he could be relaxed there, because he was safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg let that thought simmer a bit; he liked that. He could get a little too protective, sometimes. A little too invested in Mycroft’s well-being, and under-invested in his own. He’d been working on it. He couldn’t take care of everything; he couldn’t fix most, let alone all, of it. If he couldn’t be everything at all times, solve Mycroft’s problems or heal all his hurts, Mycroft wasn’t going to leave.  But knowing that that didn’t mean that Greg didn’t swell with pride every time he saw Mycroft Holmes at ease and at home, knowing that he had helped him to have it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So there they sat, with their little quirks and their lingering dysfunctions, happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were eventually joined by the puppy making her clumsy way upstairs to join them now that she had apparently finished her breakfast and morning investigation of the first floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet you want a walk,” Greg murmured, reaching for her and giving her a combination scratch and cuddle. “Silly girl.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looked up Mycroft was watching, smiling, his cheek resting on one hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” Mycroft said, simply and plainly, and casually as if it wasn’t the first time he’d ever said it in those exact words, out loud and everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg forgot to breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Mycroft continued, “for… for making my life so entirely complete.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t. He cleared his throat. “I—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would tell you if something was wrong,” Mycroft said. “But you have helped make it so it would be very, very difficult for anything to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span> wrong.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man could read minds. It was the only explanation for this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg swallowed hard. “Mycroft.” He leaned forward. “Just kiss me before I make a complete fool of myself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed, a quiet little huff of an exhale, and leaned forward as well, his lips meeting Greg’s gently in the middle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a good life,” Mycroft said as he drew back. “That’s all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too, you amazing, perfect thing,” he said. “But this dog is going to piss on me if I don’t take her out. I can hear her thinking about it. So come get dressed and go for a walk with us. And I’ll buy you a pastry on the way back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft laughed for real this time, bright and happy, Greg’s favorite sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a deal,” Mycroft said, and kissed him one more time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a good life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>THE END</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Years later, a bit in his cups after Rosie Watson’s birthday party, Mycroft would propose, and not remember that he had proposed. <br/>Greg would propose a couple of months later, and never tell Mycroft about the first one. <br/>Some things Mycroft just did not need to know. <br/>He also figured that, with retirement a month away, the poor man had enough on his plate without having to also silently yearn to make it official. Greg could do the asking. After all, he’d been trying not to ask since about two weeks into their living together. <br/>When he did ask, Mycroft answered by not answering, instead tackling Greg back onto their bed and proceeding to do unspeakable things to him for the rest of the morning. </p><p>:D</p><p>Hey, guys? Thanks for reading and commenting and messaging and yelling at me. Y'all are just... I can't say enough how much I love you! </p><p>If you'd like, there's a playlist for this fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4Eg4NUQfYgQMaLAERZEM4d?si=GH8ClRVURtSuGRMfHWIIag</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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